


The Limelight Demons

by c28



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types
Genre: Difficult Topics, Drugs and Drink, I can't stress the AU enough I own nothing, I haven't written RPF since I was tiny, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Scandalous Behaviors of Various Kinds, Slow Burn, The Bachelor!AU, be nice to me please, reality tv!au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-06-01 01:24:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 39,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15132020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c28/pseuds/c28
Summary: Timothée is a whiz-kid producer on a reality dating show. Armie is fresh from a bitter divorce and mired in scandal. Luca is Timothée’s crazy boss and convinced that all that America needs is a great redemption story. He’s also convinced (rightly or wrongly) that Timothée is the man for the job.(Borrowing shamelessly from Lifetime’s fantastic showUnREAL, but you don’t need to have seen that to enjoy this fic I hope.)





	1. Chapter 1

“ — Who?” Timothée blinked. “What happened to the ex-NFL guy? Luca, we’re _weeks_ away from filming. All of our contestants were vetted with him in mind. The hell are you doing?”

“ — Aw, that’s _cute_ ,” Rachel sniggered into her hand. “The baby still thinks we vet contestants like we want them to be happy. Where the fuck have you been, spaz? This has been all over the news.” With that, she got up from her chair and slapped a magazine into Timothée’s lap.

It took Timothée a moment to realize he was staring at an issue of _People_. It wasn’t the latest, but it was current enough. On the cover could have been any washout, wearing wrinkled, two-day denim along with two-day hair. His eyes, though blue and probably gorgeous on a good day, was faded and morose now like a hunted animal. Timothée couldn’t exactly say in this room or in the presence of said company, but maybe he already felt a little sorry for the guy.

Underneath, the headline screamed: **ARMIE HAMMER AND THE MANNY FACTOR?? THE SAGA CONTINUES!!**

Armie Hammer. Somehow, the name next to the face made something click into place. But Timothée still wasn’t sure.

“...Didn’t I see a movie with him in it?”

Rachel was now looking at her hands. She had a nervous habit of biting her nails, but she’d gotten them done recently. Her nails were lacquered and bright blue, the same color as Armie Hammer’s eyes. “Most of his recent films haven’t done well. But yeah, probably.”

“...This was her idea, wasn’t it?” Timothée whirled on Luca. Luca Guadagnino was probably the last guy who you’d expect to be the exec producer on a D-List competitive dating show that was somehow the network’s flagship franchise and refused to die. The show was on its eighteenth season and desperately needed a new direction, exciting new blood. The story well, although Luca never confirmed nor denied it, went something like this: Chet, the head of the network somehow bumbled his way into a porn shoot Luca was doing in Sanremo and was so impressed he hired him on the spot. The whole thing sounded just crazy enough to be true.

Luca’s second in command was Rachel Goldberg, who’d apparently been in and out of rehab more times than she could remember. Rachel had been with the show since the beginning and Luca seemed, for the most part, more than happy to let her run the ship, although Rachel had to take some personal time for nearly killing the lead with a Jeep a few seasons before. Luca had taken a bit of flack for that, but as far as Timothée could see, scandal just slid off his boss like water.

Anyway, the point was, Timothée suddenly felt like the sanest man in the room, and that was _never_ a good sign. He flipped to the relevant and scanned the first few paragraphs.

“Holy Christ,” said Timothée.

“I know right?” said Rachel.

“I think it’ll make a good redemption story,” said Luca. “Something really uplifting, Americans can get behind it. Don’t you think?”

“You want to know what I think?” Timothée closed the magazine. He didn’t need to read anymore. “Let’s face it, Luca, okay. Armie Hammer, the guy is _fucked._ If I did what he did, I’d never leave my house. Ever.”

“Don’t you kind of do what he did?” Rachel said, with a little smirk that was between “I-told-you-so” and “Gotcha.”

“Shut up,” Timothée could feel his face go red. “Like. I already said, I don’t think it’s fair. Not to mention we don’t have time to prep him. We already prepped the other guy, and —”

“You don’t even remember the other guy’s name, do you?” Luca said.

“What does that have to do with anything? I know he plays football. I know this show’s ratings are in the tank from last season, I know that having a black Suitor is probably going to give us the energy this show needs to —”

“Could you please stop sounding like one of those whiny SJW bloggers, please, Tim. You’re killing me,” Rachel sighed. “We’re a _dating_ show. And just look at him. If those baby blues don’t say Prince Charming, I don’t know what does.” She paused, “...Also there’s no other guy, so you might as well get used to the idea. We just got Armie’s contracts this morning.”

—

Armie Hammer, as it turned out, not only left his house somewhere in Beverly Hills, but was staying at a nearby Hilton only a couple of miles from the _Everlasting_ mansion. Timothée nearly didn’t get past the concierge on the account of his face (it was _always_ his face). But after threatening a lawsuit and to call his contacts at various places to tank the hotel’s credibility, he was finally told that Armie Hammer was indeed in his room. In fact, the concierge didn’t think Mr. Hammer had left the building since his arrival a few days ago. He’d ordered an inordinate amount of room service. Actually, forget he said that. That was confidential information. Timothée promised to keep his mouth shut and went. 

Timothée rode the elevator up to Armie’s floor and stood outside the door for a long, long minute.

He already knew this was a bad idea. There was no way this was going to get any worse. Armed with that as his reassurance, Timothée knocked. When no answer came, he waited, knocked again.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Timothée from the show,” said Timothée.

“Timo who?”

Timothée sucked in a deep breath, counted to five, let it out, “Timothée Chalamet from _Everlasting_ , Mr. Hammer.”

The door’s lock unclicked. Then the door opened, revealing a man wearing the same face that Timothée had seen on the magazine cover, except this time, Armie wasn’t wearing a shirt and he looked fresh from a shower.

And his eyes were still blue.

“No one calls me Mr. Hammer,” he said. “Well, except my lawyers I guess.”

The words “except my lawyers, I guess,” told Timothée everything he ever needed to know about Armie Hammer’s familiarity with trouble. “Okay, well. Armie?”

“Whatever,” despite his disinterested tone of voice, Armie still stepped back to let Timothée into the room. It was a nice room, in a corporate boring, please-kill-me kind of way. “Can I call you Tim?”

“Yeah, if you want.”

Armie looked him up and down, “Where’s Rachel? She’s the one I spoke to when I signed stuff.”

“She couldn’t make it,” Timothée said. He had no idea what Rachel was up to and most of the time, thought it was better that she didn’t know. She was nice enough to him most of the time, but sometimes he was still scared of her. “But you’ll see her when we start filming. Or even before.”

“How old are you, anyway?” said Armie. “No offense, but you look like, eighteen. There’s a clause in my contract that says the producers would work closely with me.”

“I’m twenty-four,” said Timothée. “And I _am_ a producer. This will be my third season, but I’ve been around a long time. My mother was a casting agent.”

While a part of him wanted to sound snippy when he gave his credentials, Timothée had given some version of this spiel to previous contestants and leads too. He had a feeling that he was going to keep doing that until his testerone levels wised up and let him grow a beard. So far, no luck.

“Okay,” said Armie. “That’s cool. Do you want anything to drink? I have a fully stocked minibar.”

“I drove here,” Timothée hedged. “Probably shouldn’t.”

“Fine,” Armie turned away from him and headed towards the minibar anyway. “I’m going to have something.”

From his peripheral vision, Timothée saw the other man tip two small bottles of vodka into a tumbler.

“At least put on a shirt,” Timothée found himself saying and regretted it instantly.

“...Excuse me?”

“I said,” Timothée bit a corner of his lip. “Put on a shirt. I don’t want you too comfortable. There’s going to be cameras following you everywhere you go for the next two months while we’re filming. You might as well start being used to uncomfortable.”

Armie tipped some of the vodka back into his throat, “You have no idea who I am, do you? You’re saying this, Tim, like I don’t fucking act for a living.”

“I know that you’re the dude that got caught sucking your pool boy’s dick. And that your wife divorced you. And that you haven’t seen your kids for, oh, I don’t know, at least a month. Because you’re an asshole who’s just good-looking. And that, that’s what the whole of America is going to see unless you start being uncomfortable.” Timothée knew he sounded sharp, but he needed to get his point across. He knew Armie’s type, just like he knew that Rachel was a sadistic bitch and that this wasn’t going to be easy.

On a second thought, maybe he could use a drink.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented and kudos'ed! I hope you continue to enjoy.

“There,” said Armie. “Better?” He’d grabbed the piece of clothing that was nearest to where he stood, a white tee with a slice of pepperoni pizza. Across the bottom were the words **hangover cure** written in bold Comic Sans. “And you know, I’m not dumb or anything, Tim. This ain’t my first rodeo, I don’t think there’s anything that you could tell me that’d scare me.” 

Timothée shrugged, “I’m not _trying_ to scare you, okay? Dude, I’m just. Look, let’s just start over.” 

If they didn’t, the narrative would soon devolve into Timothée punching Armie in the teeth. He then reminded himself that dental work took time and Armie didn’t have that kind of time. 

Armie sipped his vodka and watched him.

“Let me put it this way,” _You know, in the_ only _way that your little actor’s brain can understand._ “When you’re filming a movie, any movie, who you are, it doesn’t fucking matter a ton, does it? It’s all about what you bring to the role, if you’re believable, likeable in the way you’re supposed to be,” Timothée swept a hand through his hair, absentmindedly curling his finger around a particularly stubborn strand. He probably needed a haircut. “...If you do a good job in the role, then the next step is easy. The movie sells, and you do your thing. Sell yourself or whatever you think, maybe it’s your hair, maybe it’s your gymbod, but it’s something.” 

“My gymbod,” Armie repeated. “Thanks, dude, I guess.” 

“That was,” it hadn’t been long since Armie put on a shirt. The guy was, without a shadow of doubt, very much in possession of a gymbod, but Timothée was hardly going to give him the satisfaction. Any more hot air and Armie’s head was going to explode. “— more of a general ‘you,’ but okay.” 

Armie snorted, “You hurt my feelings, Tim.”

“And guess what? It’s not like I give a shit.” Timothée worried the inside of his cheek with his teeth. It was a bad habit of his, but it wasn’t terrible, as far as vices went. “What I’m trying to get across is this: you don’t have the role to fall back on on something like _Everlasting_. You’ve only got you, and versions of yourself that you have to get people to like. You have to sell yourself, really go for it, to the girls, to the audience, otherwise people are going to only remember you for sucking cock.”

—

“I mean,” it was something Rachel hadn’t exactly mentioned, but because Timothée paid attention and he partly did wonder. “That’s something else we can do, I guess. We can cut some of the girls, audition some guys. Part of the way this whole redemption schtick works is —”

“No way in hell, okay?” Armie interrupted him. “No way José not doing that.” 

“Do what?” Timothée blinked.

“I am not going to fake-date guys on national television.”

“But you’ll fake-date girls,” Timothée pointed out mildly. The irony was so thick in this room that one could practically cut it with a knife. “...What was it then, a midlife-crisis?” 

“I’m like only early-thirties, fuck you,” Armie drained the rest of his vodka and looked like he wanted more. For the moment, he didn’t move. The guy might only be early-thirties, but there was something his voice, there was something the way he slumped over an empty tumbler that made him old, sad, and dare Timothée think it, even lonely. “I don’t know Tim. It just happened.” 

“It just happened,” Timothée repeated. It was becoming increasingly clear to him that Armie Hammer needed therapy, and lots of it. What Armie Hammer perhaps didn’t need was for cameras to follow him around for two months, for him to weave a fantasy around himself so tight that he couldn’t see a way out, because that’d already happened once before.

But Luca and Rachel probably knew that too, and didn’t care. 

“Don’t you ever have things that just happen?” Armie said. He’d moved to the minibar again and looked like he was between Jack Daniels’ and more vodka. 

Timothée stepped forward and plucked the bottle of vodka out of Armie’s grasp, “Sure I’ve had things ‘happen.’ If I have a regrettable one-night-stand, I go home, throw up, and start again tomorrow. I don’t revisit the traumatic experience for six months and be brazen enough about it so that TMZ catches me doing it.” 

“Okay well, when you put it like that,” Armie made a sound in his throat that was neither here nor there and instead of trying to parse it out for more meaning than it was worth, Timothée left it alone. He’d been at this long enough to know how to pick his battles. “Do you want some ice with your vodka?” 

“That’d be nice, actually.” 

“Can’t say that I’m not a good host, hey?” Armie found him another glass easily enough but the ice was another story. “Um. Ice. I. Thought I saw an ice dispenser down the hall. I’ll be right back…” 

Timothée racked his memory for an ice dispenser. He was almost certain that he hadn’t run into one on the way over. A part of him thought it wasn’t a good idea to let Armie leave the room, “Never mind. I can drink it straight.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yes,” Timothée nodded. He uncapped the bottle and took a measured half-sip under Armie’s watchful gaze. “See?” 

“My dude,” said Armie approvingly. 

“I am not your anything,” Timothée said, a touch snippish. 

“Okay, Mr. Sensitive.” 

Timothée allowed himself another sip and set down the glass, “...Can I ask you a question?” 

“You can ask,” Armie shrugged. 

“I’m probably not supposed to tell you this,” said Timothée. “But you weren’t supposed to get this gig. Aight? I’d been wanting to land this ex-NFLer for _months_. His manager kept dicking me around, and I didn’t think the network would come through. Something about low marketability, but in the end he said yes. And then Rachel has you swoop in like you’re some sort of Prince Charming Great White Hope...I mean, you clearly don’t want to work with me and I’m the last person who even wants you here.” Timothée sucked in another deep breath. “So I guess my question is, why the fuck are you here?” 

Armie whistled through his teeth, drank his Jack Daniels’, “Wow.” 

“...Am I wrong?” 

“Why would anyone in their right mind want to be on this show anyway?” 

“Lots of reasons,” said Timothée. “Exposure mostly. Instagram, Twitter followers, it’s a foot in the door with the network’s other franchises. It’s being mobbed by the press the way that Joey Normal has always dreamed of. It’s easy sex.” 

“So what you’re trying to say is that I look like Joey Normal,” Armie snorted into his glass. 

“That was totally what I was saying, sure.” 

Armie looked him up and down, and for whatever reason, Timothée found himself staying completely still, although something about the look, suddenly unending and intense, made him want to fidget. 

“You’re going to laugh at me,” Armie said finally. 

As if on cue, a little sound escaped Timothée’s throat. He hadn’t meant to; it’d just happened, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Armie. “Sorry, it’s probably something in my.” He made a deal of tapping his Adam’s Apple with a knuckle. “Not laughing. I swear.” 

Armie’s gaze, if possible, seemed to have accrued even more suspicion over the last few seconds. A long moment ticked by, and then he said, “My mom called the network head. Chet whatshisface.” 

The fact that Armie’s mother, whoever she happened to be, knew Chet Wilton (otherwise known as Asshole #365 and indiscriminate skirt-chaser) wasn’t terribly surprising. However, it was the way that Armie had relayed the information to Timothée that properly caught his attention. 

“...Apparently she laid it on thick, said I’d be a great Suitor. That I had a story to tell the whole of America.” 

“...Your mom signed you up for this show?” Timothée repeated, just to be sure. Suddenly, Armie’s reluctance to fake-date men on national television made a lot of sense.

“Crazy, huh.” 

Timothée allowed himself to take a minute. Armie seemed like he was on the cusp of something and Timothée knew he couldn’t afford to ruin it. 

“...Does your mom uh, watch the show?” 

“Brad 2.0 was her favorite,” said Armie. “The drama was top notch.” 

“Okay. Jesus.” 

“Yeah.” 

An insistent buzz punctuated the quiet after that. Timothée fished out his phone and he visibly relaxed after checking the number. The call couldn’t have come at a better time. 

“...Sorry, I need to take this, be right back?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alexi is from _UnREAL_ season 3. I've changed his backstory ever so slightly to make it fit but I did not make him up. Thank you for reading.

The hallway looked deserted enough that Timothée could have had the conversation by the elevators, he thought. At the same time, working so closely with cameras and knowing what went on in the control room on set made him paranoid enough that he opted for his car instead. 

“Hey you,” wherever Alexi was, it sounded noisy. “I thought you weren’t going to pick up.” Maybe he was in a bar. A quick look at his watch told him that since it was nearly two in the afternoon in sunny, yet smoggy downtown LA meant that it was nearly eleven at night in Berlin. 

“Yeah well,” Timothée reached for his sunglasses in the glove compartment. “It got unexpectedly busy. I’m prepping Armie Hammer for filming. Don’t tell the ‘zines. I don’t think it’s been announced yet.” 

“Who?”

Alexi’s nonchalant question made Timothée smile, “Some actor. Not a very good one.” 

“I thought you’d signed some sports guy.” 

“...I did. Do you remember his name?” 

“Of course I don’t. That’s your job.” Alexi paused, “Oh my God, Timmy you don’t remember who you signed!” 

“I blame you for that,” said Timothée. He was doing his best to sound annoyed, but it likely wasn’t working. 

“I am blameless and perfect,” Alexi said. “It’s you who needs to let loose. Anyway, I need to go. It’s my turn to buy a round. Miss you, Timmy Tea.” 

“Bye,” Timothée waited until Alexi had cut off the call before he hung up. He’d give himself another moment before he headed back to work.

—

Timothée ducked the concierge the second time around and contemplated calling Rachel or Luca in the elevator. To his mind, the fact that Armie’s _mother_ had gone to Chet to ensure his appearance on the show was pretty big news and he probably should have been told. Although Rachel probably would have thought it was funny to have him find out the way he did.

“Want something else to drink?” said Armie. “Who was it?” 

“Water?” Timothée wasn’t exactly feeling the vodka and could see himself having another. In the end, he decided it was better to be safe than sorry. “It was,” his first instinct was to lie. He’d lied at work shamelessly until he and Alexi had been caught in Luca’s office just for kicks. After that, Alexi had to go off to New York for a production of _Swan Lake_ and what followed was the worst two weeks of Timothée’s life. Gradually though, things had petered out and A. D. Dan had even admitted to Timothée that the porno tape kind of wasn’t a thing. He was just kind of paid to say that he had one as part of a dare. All in good fun, that sort of thing. 

“Alexi. He’s my boyfriend,” Timothée said. “But we don’t see each other much. He’s touring at the moment.” 

Armie’s expression was telling. Although it didn’t give much away, it’d given away enough, “...As what?” 

“He dances. Ballet. They’re doing _Adam Zero_ in Berlin.” 

“Really?” It wasn’t hard to see that most of that had flown over Armie’s head. He probably was someone who barely knew what ballet meant. Still, Armie went and filled another glass with water. “Did you find the ice?” 

Classic deflection.

Timothée took the glass from him, and resisted the urge to brush by the guy’s knuckles. Mostly out of curiosity. Maybe Armie would jump out the window. 

“I mean, it’s 2018,” Timothée pointed out gamely. He figured could let the ice go for the time being; there was lots more to get to, “I could marry him if I wanted to. It’s not a big deal, but if it’s a problem for you you could say.” 

“And then what?” Armie was purposely not looking at him now, picking at the edge of his t-shirt. 

“Then whatever. You work with Rachel, you’ll probably sleep with her, and then regret sticking your dick in crazy.”

“Sounds like you’re speaking from experience,” said Armie.

“Inasmuch as a lawsuit could be experience,” Timothée shrugged. “I haven’t personally been, if that’s what you mean.” 

Armie looked rather longingly at his minibar again. He seemed like he was having a careful conversation with himself, weighing the pros and cons in his head. He stayed still and said, “I don’t have a problem with it. I’m not that kind of person.” 

“Good,” Timothée did some calculations himself; he could probably challenge the statement to great effect but he wasn’t the morality police (ha!) and the thing about working in reality television was that everything and nothing was offensive. “Because if you did, I’d assure you by saying you’re not my type.” 

“Am I not?” 

“I don’t date or fuck actors,” said Timothée. “It’s kind of a thing. If I did it’d get incestuous very quickly.” 

“Oh,” said Armie. “Well, you’re not mine, so.” 

“Yep, no problem.” 

“Definitely.”

—

“I have to ask you a question,” said Timothée. This was taking longer than expected and Armie had ordered room service to fill the lull. When the food came, Timothée ducked into the bathroom. It was instinct, and also it was a chance to see how the guy kept his bathroom. The neatness of the place surprised him. His razors were even cleaned. There was a prescription bottle for Xanax. “And you have to answer. The last thing I want is to be blindsided.”

“Put that down,” said Armie, leaning against the doorway. He was tall enough that he had to slouch. “That’s private. What?” 

“Do you talk to your ex?” 

Armie’s face scrunched as if someone had socked him good and hard in the stomach, “...Do we have to?” 

“Yes, we fucking have to. I’d like her to be by your side throughout all this. Maybe be part of your intro video that we’ll shoot next week. I’d also like to get some footage with you and your kids. Americans love kids. Especially,” and this time, he was careful to qualify it as necessary, “I mean, generally. Hot guys with kids. They eat that shit up.” 

Armie laughed. It wasn’t a particularly nice laugh. He came into the bathroom and plucked the bottle out of Timothée’s hands. “Well, I do talk to Liz, only to beg her to let me talk to the kids. Most of the time she hangs up. So good fucking luck with that.” 

“At least she picks up?” Timothée offers. “I’ll need her number, please.” 

Armie turned from him and went back out into the room. Timothée waited a moment and followed at a respectable distance. 

“What are you going to do with her number?” 

“I’ll call her? Isn’t that what most people do with numbers?” 

The look Armie fixed him with was one that could have defined “unamused” in the dictionary. “What makes you so sure she’ll talk to you?” 

“That’s my job, I get people who don’t particularly want to talk to me to talk to me.” Timothée said. Armie had ordered a selection of bread, charcuterie and olives. He popped an olive in his mouth and reached for his phone as Armie read out Liz’s number. Timothée found that he knew very little about Liz Chambers. Apparently she worked as part of some talk show but since the Armie debacle had left her job and not many photos had been taken of her out in public. 

“And you know, it’s good that she hasn’t.” 

“Hasn’t what?” 

“Badmouthed you to the press or anything. She just wants to get on with things; she’s not capitalized on your fuckup to get ahead. That I can work with.”

“We were married for _eight years_ ,” Armie said. “She isn’t like that. She’s morally upstanding.” 

“Unlike you.” 

“Unlike me.” 

“And Nick? Do you talk to him?” 

Armie’s jaw tightened, “No. His lawyer called me once.” 

“I can work with that too.” 

“...Tim, don’t talk to Nick. Please.” 

There was something in Armie’s voice that gave Timothée pause, “I probably will have to. But I won’t if I can manage. Okay? Trust me.” 

“ _Trust you_.” Armie snorted, “We’re not even people to you guys, are we?” 

“Of course not,” Timothée admitted as he ate another olive and spat the pit out onto his palm. “Nobody’s a person when they’re on television. Thought you acted for a living.”


	4. Chapter 4

On his way home, Timothée rang Luca. Rachel was the one he wanted to ring more, but that was neither here nor there. He needed a sanity check.

“Hello, Timmy.” Luca pronounced his name _TEE-my_ and it grated on the ear. “How was your date with Prince Charming?” 

“Fuck Prince Charming. More like finding a diamond in a junkyard the size of South Africa.” 

“So it went well then?” 

Timothée rented a studio for about $1,600 at the Versailles near downtown. It was only about ten miles from the mansion and nearly about that in relation to everything else he needed to be. It was also near Alexi’s dance company when he was about. Most of the time though, Timothée had the place to himself and tonight, he was especially grateful. 

After slamming the door and kicking off his shoes, Timothée threw himself down on the sofa. “He doesn’t talk to his ex. He doesn’t want me to talk to his paramour, and to top it all off, Armie Hammer is a top grade douchebag. You want me to polish him up so that ladies will swoon and line up around the corner? You must think I’m some sort of wizard that pulls miracles out of my ass.” 

“Well, aren’t you?” said Luca. “You’re almost up there with Rachel, but you know, less crazy.” 

“She’s got ten years on me. You just watch.” Timothée hollowed his cheeks and exhaled sharply. He leaned forward and opened the compartment under his coffee table, revealing skins and some small square Ziplocs, some empty, others not. With a swiftly-practiced motion, Timothée tucked his cell under his chin and tapped some of the weed into a grinder and listened to Luca breathe.

Finally, the man said, “...Do you want me to give Armie to Rachel? I could. But then I think you’d be missing out on a big chance to prove yourself.” 

“Do you think I need to prove myself?” 

“You think that,” Luca said, in the sort of tone that was fatherly and frustrating at the same time because he was _right_. “Fuck what everyone else says, right? That’s what you say.” 

“I do say that,” Timothée shrugged. “I just wish he was someone else.” 

“I’m sure he thinks that too.” 

Timothée thought back to the too-neat bathroom, the Xanax, the minibar that probably needed a top-up just about now. He couldn’t exactly disagree. 

“I don’t think Liz will talk to me,” he said, angling for a change of subject. Liz was his next challenge. Timothée liked challenges; they emptied his mind of other things that probably needed his attention just as much. He licked the edge of the skin and then tapped the joint at the edge of the table. 

“I think she’ll surprise you,” said Luca. 

“Like you did when you neglected to tell me that Armie’s mom signed him up for the show where he’ll have to shove twenty women’s tonsils around for the sake of good television.” 

“So we’re not auditioning more men? Rachel will probably cry.” 

“Fuck her,” Timothée said and the words felt good to say. “Would that even get past the network?” 

“We’re shooting in California and sexuality crises are very trendy and liberalizing. Imagine if we got Nick on the show.”

“ _No_.” 

“It was just an idea,” Luca shrugged. (Timothée obviously couldn’t see over the phone, but he could see it if he closed his eyes.) “Open your mind and you’ll open her mind, Timmy. I think you’ll be fine.”

—

Half a joint in, Timothée made a sound decision to call Liz Chambers. She picked up on the fourth ring, and even her “hello” sounded uptight and wary. Not that he could really blame her. “That’s cute, ringing me from another number.”

“Hey, Liz. It’s um. It’s not Armie. This is um, Timothée Chalamet.” 

“Do I know you?” 

“Not exactly, but I’m not press, and I don’t want anything. I just want to talk to you. Can we do that?” 

Liz made a sound that seemed like she was sucking her tongue in between her teeth, “Did he ask you to call me?” 

“Well,” the view from his living room window offered a stunning view of the city. Timothée was usually too high after work to appreciate the scenery. Now, though, he noticed details like how the Hyundai parked across the street probably needed a new paint job. “Not exactly. In fact, he probably prefers that I don’t. But it’s part of my job, Liz. I gotta hustle. Know what I mean?” 

“...What did you say your name was?” 

Timothée imagined that she was getting out a post-it and probably planning to call her lawyer the second they hung up. He plowed on, “Look. My name isn’t important. Did he talk to you about going on _Everlasting_? We got his contracts, so I just wanted to make sure that Armie cleared it with you. I know you’re probably worried about exposure and the kids, that sort of thing. If he hasn’t talked to you about it...I think you two should probably sit down and have a conversation.”

“I’ve seen a season or two,” Liz hedged. “His lawyer sent me something about his going on, yes. I don’t give a fuck what he does, excuse my French. But I want him to leave me and the kids alone, and out of it.” 

Timothée took a long hit from his joint mostly for courage, “You know you’ll be affected if he goes on anyway. Reporters will be showing up at your door, maybe accosting the kids at school.”

“That’s disgusting,” Liz said.

“It is,” Timothée agreed. “But if you work with us, we can protect you. Put the kibosh on the media circus before it even starts. I can do that for you.” 

“My kids aren’t even in school,” Liz’s voice had an edge to it. “So. Thanks but no thanks, I’m hanging up.” 

“ — Wait wait wait. Please don’t hang up. Armie needs you. Okay. Everyone’s on your side on this, you must know that.” Timothée pressed on. “And he’s got. He told me you guys were married for eight years. That you were a good person. Are a good person. He’s going to live with this fuck up for a long time, Liz. You can let him off easy just on this. You don’t have to let him see the kids or anything, but please just.” 

“Are you going to make this my fault?” Liz asked. “Because it really isn’t.” 

“I know, I know.” 

“He’s got his mother on his side. I doubt he needs anyone else.” 

Hometowns, Timothée thought, were going to fantastic this year. If they ever got to hometowns. “...Can you please just hear me out, Liz? Can I drive out and see you? Tomorrow?” 

“If you piss me off I’m throwing you out of my house,” she said. “Come by after two. The kids have a playdate. I don’t want them to see you.” 

“Naturally,” Timothée held in his sigh of relief. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Liz.”

—

It was only when Timothée was getting ready to leave his apartment after changing his outfit three times and finally deciding to fuck everything, that he realized that he didn’t know where Liz lived.

“Hey, babe wonder.” Rachel said. She sounded drunk. “Do you need something from me?” 

“Liz Chambers’ address?”

“It’s in Elysian Heights,” Rachel told him after a moment’s pause. “Apparently Armie wanted her and the kids to keep living in the house in Beverly Hills but she packed up her shit and just left.” 

“I bet that sort of feminism makes you wet,” Timothée said. “Why the fuck did you not tell me about Armie’s mom?” 

“Thought it would be an interesting bonding exercise,” Rachel didn’t even miss a beat. “How twisted is that, right? Your mom wanting to watch you make out with tons of ladies on television.” 

“I don’t think it’s like that, but whatever. Have fun you sicko, I’m going now.” 

“Call me if you need anything else,” she said, and went. 

It took him about a little less than half an hour to crawl to Liz’s house in Elysian Heights. The house looked charming. Timothée lit up a cigarette to give himself a couple of minutes. Against his better judgment, since he seemed to be getting so lucky lately, he rang Armie’s room at the Hilton.

“It’s Tim,” he said. “I’m sitting outside Liz’s house. Just wondering if you wanted me to tell her anything?” 

“She agreed to talk to you?” Armie sounded genuinely surprised. “How the hell did you —”

“Don’t even try,” said Timothée. You don’t want to know how much I had to shoot you in the foot. I won’t get to see the kids though. Sorry.” 

“I wouldn’t want you anywhere around my kids,”said Armie. “Seriously.” 

The door to Liz’s house opened and Timothée could see a woman that had stepped out on the porch. “I’m awful with kids.” That wasn’t exactly a lie. Kids, as far as Timothée was concerned, were always kind of underfoot. Not that he would ever tell Pauline that. She was due in a couple of months. He’d have to start making up excuses not to visit her. 

“I have to go,” he told Armie. “If you want I can call you later.” 

“That would be nice,” Armie said, and halfway sounded like he meant it. 

Timothée pocketed his phone, stubbed out his cigarette and got out of his car. “Hi. Liz? It’s Timothée. We spoke last night?” 

“Yes, hello,” she was stiff, but she still held out her hand, which Timothée shook. “The kids’ playdate cancelled. Do you mind if we just speak out here? I can leave them alone for a couple of minutes.” 

Elizabeth Chambers was, by all conventional standards, pretty the way Armie was good-looking. Yet Timothée hadn’t been lying when he’d assured the guy that he wasn’t Timothée’s usual type. There was just something about blonds that said smarmy. Smarmy was something that Armie had in spades. Maybe Timothée could make that into a hashtag on Monday nights. #smarmyarmie Twitter gold. 

Truth be told, Timothée was hoping for a more than a few minutes with Liz, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, “Sure. I mean. Whatever you want. I really appreciate that you’re making the time for me.” 

“Didn’t sound like I had much of a choice,” Liz crossed her arms. “Do you want to sit?” 

Just by looking at the pristine state of her porch furniture, Timothée could tell that she hadn’t been in this place long. Or maybe she was just like that, and taught Armie to keep a neat bathroom. “Thanks.” 

They sat, and Liz didn’t offer him anything to drink or snacks like her ex-husband. She wanted him to leave, and he needed to say his piece. Clearly, they were at an impasse. 

“Um. How are you?” Timothée started. That was as good a place as any. “I know it can’t be easy.” 

Liz looked him up and down. She wasn’t afraid of him or what he might do, which was both a good and a bad thing. “I’d be fantastic if jerks like you would leave me alone. I thought you’d be older.”

“I’m almost twenty-five,” said Timothée. “Grown up enough. Look, let’s just get this out of the way, okay? I need you to be in Armie’s intro video that we’re shooting next week. You’re going to tie the whole thing together. After that, the show and Armie. We leave you alone. We’ll talk to the media on your behalf, you can get back to work, everything will get back to normal.” 

“And what does normal look like, exactly? It’s normal for my husband to date twenty bimbos on television?” 

“Ex-husband,” said Timothée. “And uh. It’s probably normal in some parts of LA but I take your point.” 

Liz sucked in a breath, “You probably don’t believe I’m a good person, are you? Stand by your man, isn’t that the in thing now?” 

“Not everyone can do that,” Timothée said. “I get it. It’s a difficult thing. Sometimes you have to get out. Or else you don’t feel sane.” 

“I feel like I’m crazy all the time,” Liz said. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not one of those people who had rose colored glasses on all these years. I knew there was. We were working on things. I always thought.” 

A soft rap drew Timothée’s attention to the front door. A little girl stood behind the screen, looking at them curiously, “Mommy, I want jeese. Ford does too.” She was wearing a pinafore, her hair neat and her eyes blue. 

“She means juice,” Liz said. “Harper, honey. Can you go back in and play with Ford for five more minutes? Mommy will be there in a minute.” 

But something (Timothée) had caught Harper’s attention. She pushed open the screen door and toddled out to where Timothée sat to pat his knee. 

“Who are you?” 

“I uh,” Timothée’s mouth itched for a cigarette. “I’m a friend of your dad’s.” 

“I haven’t seen Daddy for a very long time,” Harper said solemnly. “Mommy says he won’t be back for a while. Is he okay?” 

“He misses you very much,” Timothée said and settled a hand on her head for a half second. “Actually. I think I should get going.” 

“I think that would be best,” said Liz. “I’ll call you about the video.” 

“You’ll do it?” Timothée pressed, and probably sounded just a touch too hopeful.

“I will think about it,” Liz wasted no time in correcting him. “Come on, sweetie, let’s get you some juice.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I love _Arrested Development_ but not so much _The Big Bang Theory_ , sorry guys! Thank you so much for supporting such a strange story.

“I hate kids,” said Timothée. He was also horrendously jealous of Alexi’s hot tub and his hotel room. Television shows never did hotel rooms justice, but Timothée could always count on Alexi to exceed his expectations. A soak in a hot tub and a bottle of champagne would be grand just about now. Just his luck.

“Yeah?” 

“What is that, champagne, are you having fucking champagne in your jacuzzi?” 

“When in Europe, right? Also you’re making me stay up until three o’clock in the morning to talk to you.” Alexi slicked back his damp hair and saluted Timothée with his champagne flute, all with his shit-eating grin in tact. “Tell me how things went today, Timmy.” 

“It went terrible,” said Timothée. “Well, not terrible. But it could have been better.” 

“I’m sure it went better than you think,” Alexi cajoled. 

“I don’t want to talk about it now, anyway. Tell me something else. Let’s talk about something else.” Timothée hoisted himself up from the couch and wandered into the kitchen. The place needed a good clean and out of the two, Timothée would definitely say he was the slob. “Like what you’re wearing.” 

“I’m in a hot tub.” 

“I know,” Timothée yanked open the refrigerator and scanned his options. There was a container of leftover Mexican that probably a day or two over, a chocolate bar (Timothée preferred his cold. He was also reliably told that this was strange), an assortment of jelly and peanut butter, although he didn’t think there was bread. “Fuck me, why is there never anything to eat around here?” 

“So have a drink,” said Alexi. “That’s what I’m doing.” 

“Yes, while you live up the high life, sweetcheeks, one of us works for a living.” 

“Is that jealousy I hear?” 

Normally, Timothée enjoyed bantering with Alexi, if only because the banter and the irony led almost naturally to sex or at least mutual masturbation as circumstances would allow. But at the moment, the idea of pulling his own dick while Alexi was relaxing in a jacuzzi just seemed all shades of not sexy. “No! I mean, yes. But it’s totally not what you think, and I’m sorry. I’m just fucking stressed out, okay.” 

“Timmy —” 

“Hang on, hang on. I got another call incoming.” 

_Incoming Call from **A. HAMMER**._

And just like that, Timothée could feel **A. HAMMER** ing headache coming on. Starting with the back of his head and inching slowly (or not) to the back of his eyes. 

“Alexi, I have to take this. It’s probably important.” 

“It’s ten in the evening, get off the clock.” 

“If only,” Timothée rolled his eyes. “Enjoy your bath. _Bisous_.” 

Cutting the call with Alexi, Timothée stared down his pending **HAMMER** of a headache and took the call, “This is Tim speaking. Don’t tell me, you’ve been arrested?” 

“I feel stalked,” was Armie’s response. “But don’t worry, I have an agent for that. Were you in the middle of something? I could…” 

Armie’s agent, whoever they happened to be, was probably not up to par given how this whole thing was playing out. “We’re not stalking you, most of it’s a matter public record, if you know where to look.” Casting one more baleful look at his fridge, Timothée finally decided on chancing it with the Mexican takeout. Half a burrito, still smelled okay. “Anyway, did you want something?”

Armie was quiet for a moment, “Did you talk to Liz?” 

“Yeah, I did.” Timothée dumped the burrito onto a plate and shoved the whole disaster into his microwave. 

“And?” 

“And,” Timothée dragged out the word. “No idea. She said she’d think about it. I think she’s sort of a saint.” 

“She is,” said Armie. “And my kids?” 

“I’m not allowed near them, remember?” Opening his fridge again, Timothée grabbed a can of Coke. Prolonged exposure to Armie and his minibar was making him wish he had some sort of hard liquor to go with. Then, “I did see Harper for about thirty seconds. She looks like you. Said she misses you.” 

For a long time, Armie didn’t say anything, “That’s the hardest part about all this, you know. I miss the fuck out of my kids.” 

Something unsettled in Timothée’s stomach and he couldn’t quite tell what it was. Probably Coke and the sad reality of his dinner. It was all right, he was going to smoke some weed for dessert. “Are you drunk right now?” 

“I’ve, had a few. Why?” 

“We should hang up. Before you tell me something that you don’t mean to tell me.” 

“Um. I can’t tell if that’s you threatening me or you growing a conscience.” 

Timothée didn’t know why, but that made him laugh. It didn’t make him snort; it didn’t make him roll his eyes at the sheer stupidity of it; it just made him laugh. 

“What did I say?” 

“Nothing, I just,” Timothée sipped Coke and inhaled deeply. “That was stressed out laughter. I’m not threatening you. But I’m still going to go. I’m tired. I’ll call you if Liz calls me, okay? Or I’ll drop by tomorrow. I’m fantasizing about your minibar.” 

“Right,” Armie swallowed. “Maybe that goes for you too.” 

“What?” 

“Never mind,” Armie said. “Talk to you tomorrow.”

—

“Jesus Christ, are you allergic to shirts?”

Armie ran a distracted hand through his still-tousled hair. It must be nice, Timothée thought, to be in one’s thirties and still sleep in until two in the afternoon. “You didn’t have to ambush me with a whole damn camera crew, Tim. Sorry guys.” 

“Technically, it’s in your contract that we can film you anytime we want,” Timothée said. “So put on a shirt, Princess.” 

“It’s ninety degrees,” said Armie. 

“You say that as if your hotel room doesn’t have air conditioning.” 

“Um, guys?” A. D. Dan peeked in behind Timothée’s shoulder. “Tim, do you want us to set up in here or what?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Set up. Take a minute.”

“This is my hotel room,” said Armie again, barely sidestepping a camera that might have otherwise reamed him one good in the face. 

“That the show is paying for. So it’s my boss’s hotel room. Sit.” 

“Do you want me to put on shirt or sit down?” Armie threw up his hands. 

“You’re not twelve, for fuck’s sake. Do you _need_ a play by play for everything?” 

Someone sniggered and the sniggering promptly stopped when Armie whipped his head around to fix whoever it was with an icy gaze. Timothée didn’t think it was A. D. Dan, who was usually not into that sort of shit and too professional for that. 

“You’ve clearly never worked with anyone who is anal as fuck.” 

Timothée opened his mouth and then closed it, “I guess I could be that anal if you want. Go fix your hair. Actually, don’t.” 

Armie stayed put, “Okay. Okay,” he put up his hands in a gesture of surrender. “You’re the boss.” He slumped down on the edge of his bed and Timothée took the armchair a little ways away. Armie. The man had since shrugged on a shirt, just a plain black V-neck this time around, and although Timothée wasn’t really looking, the “V” did Armie’s torso all sorts of favors. This was great for camera. 

“Has Liz called?” Armie asked.

“Not yet,” Timothée said. “I’ll tell you, I said, didn’t I? Trust me.”

Armie looked at him again, “Not with that little smarmy smirk on your face, I don’t.”

Smarmy smirk. Maybe he’d have to abandon that hashtag after all. 

“Um, Tim?” A. D. Dan cut in; Luca had promised him the D. P., except Carl’s girlfriend had unexpectedly gone into labor a few hours ago and for the foreseeable future, he was unavailable. “Do you want me to drop in a new roll or…?” 

“No, you get paid to prance around with a camera. Why are you not shooting?” 

“Okay, fine. Two seconds. — Shooting.” 

Armie turned his head slightly towards the camera and Timothée snapped his fingers, “Don’t look over there. Look at me.” 

“Charming,” said Armie. “What are we doing?” 

“Just having a conversation,” Timothée leaned forward and settled his elbows onto his knees. “We’ll shoot a few takes, get used to each other, try to make you interesting.” 

“I think I’m plenty interesting,” Armie sat up a little straighter. “I’ve been doing interviews ever since I was like, nineteen. I was on _Arrested Development_.” 

“You mean like the single most annoying comedy on earth?” Timothée couldn’t exactly help himself.

“ _Hey_.” 

“I worked on that,” said a voice beside one of the cameras.

“No one is talking to you, Glen. Shut up and film,” Timothée said. He turned his attention “And unless you were one of the Bluths I don’t want to hear anything about any of the shitty roles you’ve had. Okay. That’s bragging about shit that’s not even worth bragging about. I want you to level with me. Who’s Armie Hammer when he’s offscreen?” 

“He probably drinks too much,” Armie sighed. “Is _The Social Network_ shitty? Because I was in that.” 

“Haven’t seen it.” 

Armie’s eyebrows shot up, “You haven’t?” 

“ _Really_ ,” Timothée pushed forward, ignoring Armie for the time being; for a guy who’d apparently boasted about doing interviews as part of a show as wrongly lauded _Arrested Development_ since he was at the tender age of nineteen, Armie was not exactly the most savvy of people. “I give you the chance to bare your soul and the best you can come up with is ‘I drink too much?’ Wrong fucking answer, try again. Rehab is chic but not while we’re trying to make people fuckable.” 

Armie sighed loudly and arched back against the headboard, “Fuckable? Is that word even allowed? I thought you were selling something else.” 

“What, like romance? True love? Nah dude, that’s.” Timothée laughed, “That’s some top next-level shit. If we start with fuckable, that’s good. We can take baby steps.” He snapped his fingers, “I know. Tell me about your first girlfriend. Were you nervous when you kissed her? Take me back to that moment.” 

“Do you promise that we won’t use this footage?” 

“I promise nothing,” Timothée reminded him. “I just said I don’t think there’ll be anything useable in what we shoot today.” 

“So what is this, you’re just trying to fuck with me?” 

“That comes later,” said Timothée. “You know, during filming.” 

“Thanks for the honesty, bud.” Armie lifted himself up from the bed and stepped through the tangle of the cameras to help himself to the minibar, “Actually, excuse me?” 

“He allowed to do that?” Glen said. 

“Don’t you start,” Armie rifled through the contents of the minibar and came away with a can of Heineken. “I’ve seen your show. People are _plastered_.” 

“So they are,” Timothée agreed. It wasn’t as if they had a lot of choice. It was getting to the point where police didn’t take calls from the mansion terribly seriously anymore. Most of the time this wasn’t a problem; Luca described it once as a ‘hiccuping fit he’d rather not be having.’ “You’re not allowed anything else until you answer my question.” 

“Well, okay. I was,” Armie took a long swig of beer. “I was nineteen, her name was Jacquie and I chipped her tooth.” 

“You can’t just make something up,” said Timothée. Somehow, he felt like what Armie had told him was mostly unbelievable but also incredibly dull at the same time. That sort of fiction took talent — and not the good kind, either. 

“Mm. No. Not making it up. We only dated for two months. In the end she couldn’t get over the tooth. I had to ask my parents to pay for her dental.” But there was a smirk on Armie’s face again. 

“Your first girlfriend was when you were _nineteen_? Did you like, I dunno. Live in a convent?” Research didn’t exactly turn this up, but aside from the Hammers’ colorful history and assorted scandals (there were a few, it wasn’t as if the apple had fallen very far from the tree), they probably hadn’t been looking terribly hard. There was just something irresistible about low-hanging fruit. 

“I was,” Armie avoided his gaze, “You won’t believe me, I don’t think anyone will. But it was really hard for me growing up, okay? It was always taller than everyone else, and I was fucking awkward, I felt like. Like I couldn’t fit into my arms or my legs or any part of me. That, stupid as it might sound, that I wasn’t meant for me. The first time a girl tried to talk to me I had to run away.” 

“Cute. To do what?” 

“Throw up. I don’t know. It was Sadie Hawkins’, and what did I do, I threw up. I’s just like whatshisface in _The Big Bang Theory_. The one that couldn’t talk to chicks.” 

“And now look at you, all grown up.” Timothée would keep what he thought of _The Big Bang Theory_ to himself, too. He’d also have to have Luca call Legal and ask if all this culture dropping was fine. 

“Something like that,” Armie sighed. “It was why I wanted to get into acting, you know. I wanted to face my fear. Conquer a part of myself. I wanted — I wanted to. Become the person I thought I could be. And I can see you laughing at me, but I mostly have everything I want. Now I just want someone to share it with, you know. And hopefully not chip their tooth.” 

“Her tooth,” said Timothée. “Here, say that again, that was good. But get it right. Turn up the charm, bleed puppy dog. You got it in you.” 

Armie looked disconcerted for only a minute. But in true actorly fashion, he pulled himself together and stared straight into the camera, gave a little shrug to set the scene. “Now I just want someone to share it with. And hopefully not chip her tooth.” 

Timothée clapped his hands together, “And cut. Let’s take five.”


	6. Chapter 6

Timothée was contemplating the idea of calling Alexi with his five minutes when his phone made the decision for him. The caller ID showed _Incoming call from **E. CHAMBERS**_. 

He ducked out in the hall.

“Hey, Liz. I’m so glad you called me back.” 

There was a long pause, “I don’t hate him, Tim.” 

“I know you don’t, and I hope you know I’m just trying to help him.” Timothée said. “So I’m just. Yeah. No, really glad you called.”

“You’re speaking to me like I don’t work in television,” Liz said. “I’ll do it, but you have to sign my contract. I’ll have my lawyer draw it up and send it over to your people and Armie’s. The last thing I want is for things to blow up in my face again. Do you understand me?” 

Armie’s door creaked open, accompanied by Armie’s head just around the corner. Great timing. 

“Yeah, yeah, I. Can you hold one sec.” Putting his hand over his phone, Timothée fixed the man with a look, “What?”

“It’s her, isn’t it?” Armie gestured towards his phone. Thankfully, he had the sense to keep his voice down. “Give me the phone. I want to speak to her.”

“Yes, but no, you’re going to ruin everything.” Timothée tightened his grip on his phone. “No.” 

“Five seconds, I’ll bleed puppy all you want.” 

“Okay, that sounds sick when you say it. But my answer’s still no. You can speak to her when she comes on set, because she will. Now, go back in.” 

“Tim.”

“Please go back in? What if,” the idea was already forming in Timothée’s head. It came so naturally to him it was almost scary. “Go back inside, I promise you, you can speak to your kids.”

“What?” 

“What? My lips aren’t moving? Go back inside, and you can speak to your kids.” Timothée made a shooing motion with his hands. “Go. Please go?” 

“I will punch you,” said Armie. That was all that he needed to say, and an unwitting chill ran itself all the way up Timothée’s spine without his permission. After lingering a moment more, the door closed behind him and Timothée released a breath he hadn’t even been aware of holding. 

“Yes, hey, Liz?” 

“Still here,” if she was angry at him for dangling her, Timothée couldn’t exactly tell. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, all fine, of course. And you know, we’ll do it however you want. Your lawyers, your contract. Just get your paperwork to Legal and they’ll take care of it, and I’ll just. Yeah, I’ll do whatever it is you need me to do from my end and run with it.” Timothée slumped against the wall. 

“I don’t want my kids involved in the show. It’s not healthy for Harper or Ford. I’m doing this for them and not to get back at Armie.” Liz said, “You know what I mean?” 

“Well, I don’t have kids,” said Timothée. “But. Yes, I understand. And I wouldn’t want you to do anything that you didn’t want to do, but I was really hoping that the kids could I don’t know, be in the background? They don’t have to say anything. Armie could go with them in a montage, you could be there and…” 

“Absolutely not. Did you think you could talk me into this dumpster fire of a reality television show and.” 

“Okay, okay,” Timothée was eager to cut her off before she could get started. “I get you. I’m a piece of shit. Look, I’m not filming right now, okay. And Armie would really like to say hi to Harper and Ford. He says he hasn’t talked to them in over a month.” 

“Are you with him right now?” Liz’s voice was suddenly tight. 

“We were just doing a bit of prep. Yes.” 

“He talk you into this?” 

Timothée drew in a deep breath, “Uh. No. I just thought it’d be a nice thing to do. He uh, doesn’t exactly like me.”

“Does anyone like you?” 

“Okay, that, ow. But I deserved that,” Timothée sighed. “Look, we’re taking five. Just put them on for like ten seconds. No cameras. No nothing. The kids don’t have to be in on the video. Tit-for-tat.” 

There was a long pause, then Liz sucked in a deep breath. “Doesn’t this suck out your soul?” 

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” Timothée said. “C’mon, Liz. I’m only asking for a minute. You can put him on speaker, monitor that he doesn’t say anything you don’t want him to.” 

“He’s their father, I’m not just going to tell him,” Liz’s frown was in every one of her syllables. “Okay. You can put him on.” 

“Thank you,” Timothée pumped his fist in the air but immediately cleared his throat to scrub his voice of any overt relief. “I’ll get him.” 

When Timothée clicked his fingers for Armie back in the hotel room, an unexpected, but no less delicious chill went up his spine when the man jumped at the sound without further prompting. Timothée could get used to that, “You’re on speaker, and you’ve got a minute.”

—

Although he could have stayed to listen in on Armie’s conversation with his kids, Timothée decided that getting a cavity filled was undoubtedly more fun. Besides, in this business it was crucial to maintain a line in the sand. He was in the middle of weighing his options about whether to set a bad precedent for the crew about drinking on the job, when Armie’s return saved him from having to make a bad decision.

Who knew? Maybe this was this was Armie’s purpose in life, to make bad decisions so other people would be saved from committing heinous acts against one’s self interest. 

“So. What’s next, boss?” 

Armie’s mood seemed to have improved markedly after the conversation with his kids. Timothée was hardly an expert in this sort of thing, but it was almost good to see Armie in a good mood. At the same time, however, the positivity now radiating from the guy was near about unbearable. 

The rest of the hour went smoothly enough. There was some usable footage, but editing would have to be clever about blurring the backdrop and patching up the fact that Armie didn’t seem to be sleeping well.

“And...cut. I think that’s enough for one day,” Timothée rose from the armchair. “Let’s leave all that. We won’t be able to move on until Liz sends over her paperwork. But she’s assured me that it’s —”

“She says it won’t take long,” a voice cut in and Timothée nearly didn’t recognize it until he traced the origin of the voice to Armie who was crouching by his minibar again and cracking open a fresh one. “Your people will have it by end of the end of the week. That fast enough?” 

Timothée started, “What? Oh, that’s,” _not expected_. “Yeah. That’s fine. I’ll speak to Luca about it.” 

“You’re not the only who can wheel and deal,” Armie shrugged. “Actually, Tim, can I talk to you?” 

“Yeah.” Although Armie Hammer was not exactly his favorite person for the moment, there was something slightly unappealing about leaving a fully stocked hotel room and going back to a studio with empty cabinets. Armie was still wallowing, but at least he was doing it in style. To the crew, Timothée gave a dismissive wave, “Aight guys, see you later?” 

“Later, dude,” Glen saluted him on he way out. “We’re all at the usual place if you’re around.” 

When the last of the crew cleared out of the room, Timothée closed the door. He couldn’t help but feel a little pinch of guilt, but then reminded himself that Armie probably valued his privacy. 

But then, there was Rachel in the back of his head again, _how cute, babe wonder is thinking of the contestants again!_

“Oh, fuck you.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I,” Timothée cleared his throat. “Did I say that aloud? Didn’t mean to.” 

Armie fixed him with a vaguely curious look, “...Do that a lot? My therapist says that’s a sign of spending too much time by yourself.” 

The fact that Armie had a therapist wasn’t surprising. Most of the people he’d ever worked with always had an army of other people worrying after their mental health. Timothée probably needed one, but he was aware that that took an hour of his time that he’d rather not give away and Timothée had grown up lucky. In some sense, he still was. 

“I’m never alone,” Timothée found himself saying. “It’s nice to go home and have nobody there to bother you.” 

“Thought you had a boyfriend,” said Armie. 

“I do. But like I said, I really don’t see him much,” Timothée exhaled. “But we’re not talking about me, are we? What did you want?” 

“Honestly? I’d kill for some weed. I haven’t smoked in _days_.” 

“You say that you can’t get any yourself.” 

“I _can’t_.” 

Timothée stared at him for a lingering moment. It got uncomfortable enough for Armie that he looked away. Timothée was going to chalk up that one as a win, “It’s not like we’re imprisoning you here or anything. You just, gotta be discreet. Nothing gets serious until.”

“Filming, I know. But I’m blond and six-five. Who’s fucking not going to notice me?” Armie gestured, bringing his hands back around to his torso. 

“Okay, wow.” 

“Wow what?” 

“I can’t tell if you’re actually serious or. Look, fine. This is against the rules. But you can come back to mine. Buy us some Mexican on the way back and we’ll call it even.” The words slipped out of Timothée’s mouth before he could think them all the way through. He was already regretting it.

But Armie’s grin was threatening to split his face wide open. “You got it, dude. Ever try Frida’s? Their shrimp tacos are dank.”

—

“So this is where you live?”

That it was against the rules to let Armie out of his hotel room made Timothée think of betrayal bonding. He should be worried that it was coming so easily. What he was doing, Timothée would tell himself, was producing. One of the first things that Rachel had ever said to him, was that he should always think about producing contestants offscreen to make them more pliable onscreen. (Luca’s addendum to this piece of wisdom was brief but telling, “Yes, she tells herself that because it makes her feel better when she fucks up and around. But you? I think you know that’s _cazzate_ , Timmy.”) 

“Yes, this is where I live,” Timothée said. “Why? Expecting some sort of dump?” Sure, place looked live in and there were a pair of dirty socks that he was going to subtly pick up en route to his living room, but for what it was worth, Timothée wasn’t ashamed of his place in the slightest. 

“Thought you lived in your car,” Armie shrugged. 

“What, really? Thought you had more of an imagination than that.” 

“Actors don’t need imagination,” said Armie, and promptly frowned. “Wait no, that’s not what I meant.” 

“Straight from the horse’s mouth,” Timothée smirked with one side of his mouth and went to his coffee table to pluck out a joint for Armie. “But don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone.” 

“How kind,” Armie said, but there was hardly any ire in his voice as he rolled the proffered joint between his fingers. He leaned forward as Timothée clicked a lighter. After he took his first inhale, he shook his shoulders as if to rid himself of the excess weight he was carrying. 

“Yeah, well.” Timothée turned away from him to fetch one for himself. “You do something for me, I do something for you. I’m not unfair.” 

“What did I do for you?” Armie fixed him with vague, but definitely present curiosity. 

“You got Liz to hurry it up with the paperwork,” Timothée shrugged. “I thought I’d have to fight her on it.” 

“Oh, that. Yeah. That’s no big deal. I wouldn’t fight Liz on anything.” 

_I noticed_ were the words on the tip of Timothée’s tongue. But there was something innately cruel about insulting a guy when he’d just taken a hit. Instead, he settled on, “...Enjoying the hotel room?” 

“What do you think?” 

“I think,” Timothée was careful to train his eyes on the lit end of his joint. “That you could have stayed him. We offered you that hotel room as a joke. Well kind of. Luca suggested it, but he’s got a strange sense of humor.” 

“He your boss?”

“Yep,” Timothée looked at the other man out of the corner of his eye. Armie was beginning to relax and let his guard down. “Word is he used to do porn.” 

Armie raised an eyebrow, his whole posture screaming intrigue, “What, act in it, or?” 

“ _No_. God, okay.” Timothée palmed out his phone from his pocket and thumbed for a photo of Luca at one of their wrap parties. He didn’t have to look terribly hard for a bad picture. In the end, he opted for one where Luca, red-faced, was looking forlornly across a row of empty shotglasses. “This is him. Would you do him?” 

Armie squinted, “Um. No.” 

“Thought so,” Timothée snorted.


	7. Chapter 7

Three joints and a half later, Armie was _sans_ shirt again and maybe, just maybe, Timothée was tempted to run a hand down the guy’s very toned, chiseled abs. Right afterwards, he reminded himself that he was still high. Timothée had to nudge Armie off the couch so that he could collapse his sofa into a bed. The fact that they were adults making good money sleeping on a sofa bed was unthinkable. But Timothée’s excuse was that he liked to be practical about the space they had and Alexi wasn’t going to dance ballet forever. He could stand to wait. 

“Is that the first thing you’re gonna do after Alexi retires?” Armie pokes the mattress, “Buy a real mattress? That’s really romantic.” 

“Are you kidding?” Timothée levels a glance at him. 

“Nope. It’s actually really sexy. Liz and I went out and probably fucked for ten hours straight after we got our mortgage.” 

Timothée raised both of his eyebrows. The ten million dollar question remained: how did Armie go from a sex marathon with his wife to sucking off his best friend-slash-babysitter by the pool so egregiously so that his house got stormed by tabloids. The whole thing was practically made for television.

Which, well. As a man who saw the irony in everything, this was delicious and he was not going to give Armie the satisfaction of a response. Timothée could tell that this wasn’t going to end well. He wasn’t going to take the bait; instead, he changed the subject. 

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

“Yeah, you should.” 

“I should call you an Uber, or something, or Lyft. Uber’s not kosher now, is it? With what all the harassment lawsuits.” 

“You kicking me out?” Armie pouted. The mattress dipped when he sat and Timothée shifted away ever so slightly. It seemed polite. 

“It’s,” Timothée’s eyes trailed to his wristwatch. “It’s like almost midnight. Some of us sleep. I have to be up early in the morning. You’ve smoked my weed and eaten Mexican in my apartment. Now shoo.” He made a flapping motion with his hands, but was almost too aware of the circumference of his gesture just missing Armie’s shoulder.

“I can be up early,” Armie shrugged but otherwise stayed his perch on the edge of the sofa. “Whatever happened to kids staying up late? Is that not an in thing anymore?” 

“It’s not like I’m twelve and desperately need to be cool,” Timothée said. “I’m tired, okay.” 

“I’m just saying,” Armie said. “It’s not like we’re going to suddenly get horny and fuck. I’ll even be a gentleman and take the floor.” 

The fact that Armie thought Timothée needed the assurance spoken allowed meant maybe that he had thought about it and. And nothing. 

“That’s big of you, considering that this is my place,” Timothée raised himself up on one elbow. “...Are you scared of the dark?” There was the consideration that Armie’s high was doing something funny to his head, but given how level the guy was (inasmuch as he could be) Timothée didn’t exactly think that was the case. 

There was a long pause. 

“Kind of, in a way.” Armie said, “I haven’t been this alone in eight years. It’s why I took the hotel room. I couldn’t stand to be in my house. Alone.” 

Timothée was a bit high. He had to remind himself that he was because Armie’s loneliness suddenly touched him deep inside his bones where nothing ever touched him. “I’m almost never alone. Sometimes it drives me nuts. I think I know what you mean.” 

Armie raised a hand and set it on top of Timothée’s head. Timothée held still. After a brief pause he sucked in a deep breath, “...You’re still taking the floor.” 

“Don’t worry, Tim.” Armie grinned and maneuvered himself off the sofa. “I’m good at this part. I’m used to the dog house.”

—

“...No wonder you don’t miss me. Achilles sleeps on the floor when I’m not here.”

Timothée woke slowly, shaking the fog of sleep from his sleep. Then he thought he must be still dreaming. Alexi wasn’t due back from Berlin for at least another four days, and yet there was a very unmistakable Alexi-shaped person kneeling beside him. Timothée blinked, “Do I need to be having words with Fabio for giving me shit I didn’t pay for or are you really…?”

“Fabio works at a dispensary. We’re not in the noughties anymore,” Alexi snorted. “I think that would be actually super illegal. Here, pinch me.”

Timothée did. Alexi felt solid and even winced. 

From the other side of the bed someone — no, not just anyone, _Armie Hammer_ — let fly a fart and exhaled noisily into the cushion that Timothée had lent him for the night. The way he was sleeping almost made Timothée want to go back to sleep, too. It was kind of funny, that a guy could sleep like that on the floor, but also...maybe not. Maybe it was just all sad. Timothée was just about used to translating sad into funny because otherwise he wouldn’t be able to hack it here. Everything was at least a bit hilarious otherwise he’d never stop crying. 

Alexi looked like he wanted to say several things, “Okay, maybe not Achilles. Tarzan?” 

“Shut up,” Timothée swatted at him. “The fuck are you doing back here?” 

Alexi nudged him over and Timothée burrowed into the familiar crook of his am. Alexi smelled like he was fresh from a red-eye and everything about him was wonderful. “Could you try to say that as if you were happy to see me? You didn’t sound the best so I gave the last two shows to my understudy. Kid’s never going to learn if he doesn’t get the chance.” 

“That’s very pedagogical of you,” Timothée reached to touch the side of Alexi’s face so they could kiss. Armie was still breathing like he was dead to the world. They probably had a couple of minutes, “And I am happy to see you. I really am. I’ll see if I can change the reservation I got for us, yeah?” 

“I come back home and the first thing you’re thinking about is changing a reservation?” Alexi laughed softly against his neck. “Give me a minute, my cock just twitched.” 

“We can only eat this dirty when you’re post-show,” Timothée reminded him. “And you’ve been bugging me about Animal for ages ever since we went for Rachel’s birthday.” 

“I have,” Alexi admitted. “But as nice as eating overpriced animal offal with pretentious craft beer or whatever the shit, that’s not really the meal I have in mind right now.” 

“I can’t believe you just called me a meal,” Timothée said. His wince didn’t quite make it all across his expression as Alexi leaned in to lick him on the mouth. “I’m sour and chewy and, fuck. Alexi, we _can’t_ right now, okay. Armie is.” 

“Armie is,” Alexi shifted his weight slightly so he could glance at Armie’s sleeping form over the edge of the sofa bed, “Shirtless, horny, and ready to go? I mean, imagine what he’s packing.” 

Timothée rolled his eyes, “Oh, my God. Could you not. Also, like. I told him he wasn’t my type.” 

"Plot twist: so maybe he's my type?" Alexi didn't seem fazed.

“Alexi, stop. I work with him okay.” 

“And what he’s going to do, complain to HR? Or whathisface, Guacamole? He’ll probably be here within the hour, B-roll at the ready,” Alexi made an impolite noise in his throat. Even being charitable, Timothée couldn’t find anything mannering about it. But that was the one thing he rather liked about Alexi, that the guy didn’t exactly do polite. He did rude, brutal honesty, and looked damn good doing it. 

“Luca, and he doesn’t shoot gay porn. He really likes his ladies. Else Chet probably wouldn’t be friends with him. I think.” The fact that Timothée’s day job was herding around a bunch of anorexic Instagram models wannabes amused his boyfriend to no end. Timothée’s response to that was they practically did the same thing for a living, except Alexi had to do it in public and wear a leotard. 

“You know,” came Armie’s voice a moment later. “I’m awake.” 

Timothée immediately tensed, but Alexi still kept a hold on him as he moved to peer towards the floor. “Good morning, sleeping beauty.” 

“Morning,” Armie returned. “Now I see why Tim has to be up early. You must be Alexi.”

Having such a limited view of an important conversation was driving Timothée nuts. He finally managed to break Alexi’s hold on him to align himself towards the edge of the bed. “ ‘S not like that. But sure. That’s Alexi. Alexi. Armie.” 

Armie was propped up on his elbows, using the one cushion to support the tail of his spine. His hair was mussed but nothing else about him screamed that he’d been up to no good the night before. Which was fair, he hadn’t really. 

“I uh. Should get going.” 

“Stay for breakfast,” said Alexi. “I don’t mind. I bought stuff.” 

Armie scrambled to his feet and this probably was the first time that Timothée had seen him so eager to put on a shirt. “No. I mean, I shouldn’t. Tim said he’s got a thing.” 

“I do have a thing,” said Timothée when Alexi’s glance fell questioningly on him. “In a little bit. With Rachel.” 

“Oh, yes, the hot mess. How is she?” Alexi said. For the first time ever, Timothée couldn’t tell the difference between Alexi liking all this awkward that was filling up the space, or Alexi just being too jetlagged to read a room. 

“She’s fine. I guess, still a hot mess.” Timothée heaved himself off the sofa bed and followed Armie to the door, where the man was practically tripping over his shoes. “...Armie, Armie, hey.” 

“What?” 

Timothée made short work of patting down the more obvious stuck-up bits of Armie’s bedhead and gave him a thumbs up. “Less walk-of-shame-y that way. If you go downstairs and talk to the concierge he’ll call you a car. Greg is discreet.” 

Armie looked uncertain for a moment, but managed to hitch his expression back to somewhere between “what the fuck” and “devil-may-care-but-I-don’t.” “You’re a real pal, Tim.” 

“Anytime."


	8. Chapter 8

“Less walk-of-shame-y?” Alexi quipped reliably after Timothée had shut the door again. “Is that a thing, Timmy? Should I be worried?” 

Timothée colored a little, but refused to be baited. “On the off chance that Greg isn’t discreet, I just don’t want.” He ran a hand through his own hair. “You know how this business works, Alexi. Someone sneezes and the whole of Los Angeles County knows about it like,” he snapped his fingers. 

“I did look up Armie Hammer on Google,” said Alexi. “I think he’s done a bit more than sneeze. Imagine if we do that? Sneeze and sell to a rag, we’d be rolling in it like shit.” 

“Okay, yeah, he has, but.” Timothée inhaled sharply. “Come on, dude. You just got here. Are you really going to give me shit about this?” 

“Yes,” Alexi stepped forward and drew Timothée in his arms. They kissed, and Timothée was momentarily lulled by the languid, lazy tangle of tongue. Alexi tasted slightly sweet but also tingly, like he’d been licking sherbet. “If only because it makes you squirm. Imagine if _I_ did that? Hey, Timmy, I sneezed all over some guy’s balls.” 

Timothée pulled away from Alexi and glowered, “The next thing you’re going to tell me is that his dick fell into your mouth and you know what, yes it did. Because I cut it off and put it there.” 

“Hey, hey,” Alexi’s expression softened ever so slightly. “Okay, I didn’t realize you were super stressed.” 

“Of course I fucking am!” Timothée turned to simmer at the wall instead. “We’re so fucking behind, and he’s so —” Then he took a moment, collected himself. “I’m sorry, I am really happy to see you. I’m sorry.” 

“I know,” Alexi went to him again and pressed his lips against Timothée’s temple. “Come have some breakfast. I’ve bought McDonald’s. It’s the stuff of champions.”

—

“I’m,” there was something deliciously naughty about sitting on his sofa bed, with his pants around his ankles and Alexi between his knees while Timothée was making a business call. By Luca’s ever professional count, that trope was always going to be ranked in porn. There was probably a reason for it. “I’m taking a mental health day. I’m going to let all my bad feelings be sucked out through my cock and start fresh tomorrow.”

“What?” Rachel said from the other end. “Well, okay, but you know we’re behind and.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But,” but Alexi chose that exact moment to hollow his cheeks and suck Timothée all the way down towards the back of his throat and. “ _Fuck_.” 

“You okay?” 

“Yeah, yeah. Fine. Anyway. Mental health day. Okay?” 

“Whatever. Liz’s paperwork came in, too. Legal’s going through it now with Luca. Take two. If you need it.” 

“I —” Alexi’s hands wandered, seemingly relearning the insides of Timothée’s thighs and then guiding him forward so he could press a spit-slicked thumb into his arse. “Y-yeah. Whatever.” He couldn’t hang up the phone fast enough.

—

“Okay, I. Need a shower,” Alexi winced as he ran a hand through his hair. He came away with his fingers sticky with come. “You like, exploded. There is come everywhere.”

Timothée heaved a happy sigh and flopped back onto the mattress. “I was good. Didn’t jerk off even once. Dunno where I’d find the time.” He especially liked it when Alexi’s mouth was red and full post-fallatio. “Hey, come here.” 

“I jerked off once, I think.” Alexi said, leaning forward. Timothée kissed him slow and full on the mouth. “Can you clean this up while I’m gone?” 

“...Sure. Anything you want. Why do you think?” 

Alexi shrugged, already padding his way to the bathroom, “I think I fell asleep. I’ll be five minutes. Unless you want to join me.” 

“I’m all right.” 

Timothée made short work of stripping the sheet off the sofa mattress and pondered very briefly if buying a mattress proper would indeed lead to more sex. Not that he was any stranger to sex marathons. Once the sofa was back in place and the remnants of today’s breakfast and last night’s munchies had been cleared away, he flopped down on the couch again. After a moment’s thought, he rang Armie. 

“Hey dude,” Armie picked up on the fourth ring. He actually sounded not homicidal, which Timothée guessed was a good start. 

“Hey. Um. Get back okay?” 

“Oh, yeah. Greg called me a limo and TMZ is camped outside in the lobby. I’m great.” 

“ _What_?” 

“Relax, Tim. I’m kidding.” 

Timothée sucked in a breath and let it out again, “Okay. Don’t do that. I’m seriously; we’re not even friends.” 

Armie paused, “We’re not?” 

“I’m your producer,” Timothée said. “We’re going to work very closely for the next two months and then you’re going to be all kinds of fucked in the head. Thanks to me.” 

“Okay. So, why’re you calling me?” 

Timothée sighed, “It is part of my job to make sure you get back okay. And also I wanted to ask about your house.” 

“What about my house?” 

“I’d like to film there; your intro video, maybe even doing the entrances there since it’s close enough to to actual mansion. Was just wondering about what to expect, if you sort of need cleaning to be done or anything.” 

“It sounds like you just accused me of living in the dumps,” Armie laughed. It wasn’t a very nice laugh and did strange things to Timothée’s kidneys. But that was fine. 

“Beverly Hills does have a high homeless pop.” 

“Jesus, Tim.” 

“I’m kidding. See, that’s what you do. Anyway, can we? Film there?” 

“I don’t see why not,” Armie shrugged. “Do we need to talk to Liz about that?” 

“Don’t think so,” Timothée moved to an upright position as Alexi emerged out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel draped around his shoulders. “...Hello.” 

Alexi shot him a smirk, splaying a very knowing hand over the curve of his ass. 

“Hi,” said Armie. 

“Uh. Not you, I. uh. Look, I gotta go.” 

“Okay, wait wait wait,” Armie stopped him. “There is one more thing. Can you talk to my mom?” 

“Your mom? Why?” 

“Well, she really wants in on the intro video. I told her we were making one, next thing I know she’s booked a ticket from Tulsa. It’s awkward as fuck.” 

“You shouldn’t have told her, then?” Timothée said as if it was the most obvious thing anyone could think of. “I thought you were thirty.” 

“Thirty-two, actually, and like I said, it’s a long story.” 

Time spent listening about Armie being unable to say no to his mother was time not spent giving Alexi’s ass his full attention. “Look. It’s going to be a busy day regardless, okay? We can tell the crew that you don’t want to be around your mom, and we can. I don’t know. We can wing it.” 

“Yeah, don’t do that.” 

“Don’t wing it?” 

“Whatever, just. Don’t tell the crew? It’s really embarrassing.” 

“I…” Timothée wished he had his head in the game because this was kind of gold and he sort of wished they were filming. But no. Mental health day. This was all going to go into tomorrow’s backlog. “Armie. Armie. I am doing a thing. I have to go.”


	9. Chapter 9

“So this is where you live,” Timothée was, in spite of himself, impressed. Armie lived on a cul-de-sac in not the biggest house, but the lawn was trimmed and his first impression was that well-mannered, cultured people lived here, despite said people being involved in the ever complex fabric of Hollywood showbiz. While Elizabeth didn’t seem to be all that contaminated with all the shit that her ex-husband was walking in, Timothée didn’t have the fortune to work with her. 

“Yep, this is where I live,” Armie confirmed, sounding more defeated than defiant. “Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.” 

Armie’s mood was not what it was. Usually (inasmuch as the week and a bit that he’d known Armie to be usual), Timothée knew the guy to be flippant and always ready with a quip any time, but ever since he’d learned that his mother was flying in all the way from Tulsa to be in his intro video (she was arriving later today), he hadn’t been himself. 

“Will I get to see the famous pool?” Timothée knocked into Armie’s shoulder. “I mean, I think the tabloids really got my hopes up. I just hope I’m not disappointed in real life.” 

“Okay, asshole, I get your point.” Armie said, “Fucking knock it off.” 

“It was just a joke,” said Timothée. “Have a sense of humor.” 

Armie’s mouth twisted in a juvenile way, “That well’s run dry. Anyway, you can keep your shoes on. We used to do a shoes-off thing when Liz lived here too. She thought it would make the kids more polite. But well.” 

“Whatever,” Timothée followed him inside. The front hallway leading into a spacious open plan area, which included a slightly messy lounge and an immaculate kitchen, probably because Armie never used it. Armie didn’t look like the kind of guy who could navigate a kitchen outside of working the microwave. “This is huge.” 

“It’s okay,” Armie shrugged. “I think Mom only loaned me the down payment because she was expecting oodles of kids. Not just two.” 

Somehow, a terrifying picture of Armie’s mother was emerging and though Timothée was probably still excited to meet the woman if only out of sheer curiosity, he also had a feeling he wouldn’t like her much. 

“Wild guess: the next thing you’re gonna tell me is that she’s disappointed you didn’t pop out with a vagina.” 

Armie fixed him with a long look, “You’d make a lot of money at the circus, Tim. If being an asshole ever stops working out for you.” 

“I don’t think a crystal ball’s my thing.” 

They left it at that, and Armie led him into the conservatory, a large carpeted room with glass-paned walls. The backyard was also immaculately treated and the grass, razor short and not a prickle out of place, was almost out of some kind of magazine. There was a tiled walkway to the pool because Armie fucking Hammer (or maybe his mother?) was too good for just any old walkway. 

“I’m thinking pool party,” said Timothée. “Could do without this carpet though. Imagine all the tits.” 

“Are you even into tits?” 

“I’m into very particular tits, I think. I sometimes see ones that I like on television.” 

“Okay. Wow.”

That ‘wow’ was probably a stark invitation to elaborate on Timothée’s preference on particular tits, but he was hardly going to indulge Armie in an explanation. 

“We can get some rugs or something,” Timothée prodded the carpet with his toe. “I’d hate to ruin this if we put a bar in here or something.” 

Armie laughed, “You’re speaking as if this fucking room hasn’t seen all sorts of action.” 

“What, sex?” Elizabeth’s tits were probably not particular enough for Timothée, but he could see the appeal if he squinted. 

“No, you numbnut,” Armie’s lips twisted. “This carpet’s seen Harper break her leg and Ford throwing up more times than I can remember. It does okay. But I can see your side if the carpet’s not good enough for your stupid show.” 

“It’s not my show,” Timothée said. He suddenly didn’t like the way Armie sad it. Like he was somehow wanting something that he shouldn’t be wanting. “I’d be prying it out of Rachel’s cold dead hands. You should have seen it when Chet announced Luca as the new showrunner. Fucking priceless. But it’s all fine because he lets her have her way with everything anyway. Whatever Princess wants, Princess gets.” 

“Someone sounds bitter,” said Armie.

Timothée shrugged, “I really, really don’t want to run the show. I’m not bitter at all. Besides, if you make showrunner, you’re like, locked in for fucking _life_.” 

Armie paused again, “Come upstairs. Wanna show you something.”

—

The upstairs of Armie’s house looked less like a showhome and more like a regular person’s house. Timothée had to sidestep a toy truck or risk breaking a toe.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Armie said, bending to pick it up and placing it on the corner table as they rounded the corridor. 

“Was surprised they didn’t manage to pack up all their toys,” Timothée said. 

“They left behind a few things, but it’s not like they won’t come visit,” said Armie. He sounded unconvinced. “Come on, in here.” 

Timothée followed him into a snug bedroom wallpapered with stars and spaceships. The single bed was low and kid-sized. 

“I thought Ford was like. One.” 

“He is one,” Armie knelt and slid out a plain plastic box beneath the bed, “This was us looking ahead. I was between jobs when he was born, so I did a little DIY. And yes, that means putting fucking IKEA furniture together and doing the wallpaper, before you say anything.” 

“I’m staying mum,” said Timothée. “Although it’s cute. You thinking you can read my mind.” 

“Anyway,” Armie pretended he didn’t say anything and slid out a bong from the box. “Look at this beauty.” 

“You hid,” Timothée started. “You know, it’s becoming less and less of a mystery to me how TMZ got hold of pictures of you sucking cock. I can’t tell if you’re stupid, or if you don’t _care_ or. — Christ, does Liz know?” 

“She,” Armie was careful not to look at him. “Knows I have a bong? Anyway, come on, peace offering. I have enough for us to take a hit each.” 

“I’m _working_.”

“Your workplace is probably one of the most professional places ever,” Armie rolled his eyes. “And I have to pay you back for the other day. It’s great karma. Who’s going to know?” 

Before Timothée could reply, he thought he heard a door close downstairs. He thought he’d imagined it, until he heard a voice float up the stairs.

“...Armie, sweetie? Are you up there? I saw cars in the drive.” 

“ — Your mom?” Timothée was able to deadpan gleefully before getting to his feet again. Armie looked like he wanted to punch him along with a thousand other things at once. “Here, you pack up, I got it.” 

He hurried out of Ford’s future room and padded down the stairs, almost running headfirst into a middle-aged woman who, for all intents and purposes, looked like she’d rather be someone else if her slightly obvious hair extensions were anything to go by. 

“Oh, hi,” said Timothée. “Armie’s here. He’s just in the bathroom.” 

“Upstairs?” The woman narrowed her eyes, but politely enough. 

“There’s something wrong with the flush mechanics downstairs, ma’am,” Oklahoma meant country overdrive politeness and of course, Timothée knew what that meant. “Sorry, I’m Tim. One of the producers of _Everlasting_. Um. I was telling Armie that we might want to do night one here as well as the video so I’m just. Uh, being nosy. You must be Armie’s mom. I’ve heard a lot about you.” He was quick to add, “All good things. Armie’s thrilled you’re taking the time to shoot the video with us. He needs all the support he can get.” 

“Don’t I know it,” said the woman. She gave Timothée a once over and in the span of two-seconds, he must have passed some sort of motherly radar. “There’s something so _wrong_ with the tabloids in this town. Everyone’s just so rude, and. I've had to cancel most of my magazine subscriptions. I can't really handle it.”

Dru Ann Mobley (or was it Hammer? The Internet was vague on the details) looked to be the sort of lady who could handle nearly anything. 

“Mom?” Armie reappeared at the top of the stairs. “What are you _doing_ here? I thought your flight was later. I sent a car for you?” 

“I know, sweetie and I did call and tell them beforehand. How’d you think I got here? Use your head.” 

Armie said, “Um.” 

“Well, never mind,” she said and directed her eyes back to Timothée again. “I can’t believe you’re a producer. You look as if you’re barely out of school, Tim. Call me Dru, and of _course_ I’m happy to be here.” 

Even without looking back at Armie again, Timothée could feel Armie’s discomfort radiating towards the back of his head. 

“I could use something to drink, actually.” 

“I haven’t been here in a few days,” said Armie. “But there should still be stuff in the fridge.”


	10. Chapter 10

“So, Boy Wonder, you’re spoilt for choice,” Rachel slurped loudly from a paper cup and licked her onion-y fingers. “You can get his royal trainwreck himself, his mother, or his ex-wife. I still can’t believe you got her to show up all the way from Oklahoma. Hick country, I mean, look at her hair extensions.”

“I didn’t do anything,” said Timothée. “Credit where credit is due, Dru rang Armie up on her own. Apparently she knows Chet. I mean, she’s the right age range and divorced and probably thirsty for dick.” He’d looked it up after he’d left Armie’s house.

“Okay, ew. That is disgusting. I’m going to have naked Chet in my head all day.” Rachel sucked air out of the straw and then crushed the cup, “Whatever. Anyway. Dealer’s choice,” she waved the cup in his face. “Choose.”

It only took Timothée a moment, “I choose the wife. I choose Liz.”

Rachel looked at him, “O.Kay. That’s interesting. Why?”

“I kind of feel sorry for her?” Timothée shrugged. “If you’re gonna put her through the grind, then I’m going to protect her.”

“Can you stop doing that? You’re not paid to _protect_ anyone’s special little soul, Timmy. You’re here to produce television. Good television,” she clapped him on the back for emphasis and the force of it (it always surprised Timothée how strong she was) nearly knocked him into a chair. “Nobody is special! We’re just all whores for ratings.”

“She didn’t even want to be on television! She quit her job! She’s moved into a sad house! She’s --”

“Okay,” Rachel held up her hands. “If you want to be a whiny me-first liberal, fucking go for it. Go for it, and don’t spit it in my face. Just get me something good.”

—

Elizabeth Chambers stood even in heels with him and Timothée was not used to tall women.

“I’m going to be honest,” she said. “You’re not going to get me to lie, Tim. I know all your tricks. Hosting’s different, but only because I have to pull out my breasts. Otherwise, it’s all the same.”

“I am not here to trick you,” Timothée said. The more times he said it, the more he could believe it. They were in the kitchen and he heaved himself up so he was sitting one one of the islands.

“Get down, please,” Liz’s mouth twisted into something a little unpleasant. “Food gets prepared on there.”

Timothée waited a moment, and then hopped down. “...Does Armie cook?”

Now she laughed, and it became wholly unpleasant. “Only because he thinks cooking absolves him from the dishes. And the kids. And the.” Then Liz cleared her throat, “...He does a mean mixed grill.”

Timothée leaned back on his elbows, “He does seem like the carnivorous type.” It was only after a cackle came from behind one of the cameras that he realized what he said. “— Glen! Shut up!” To Liz again, “Sorry...that came out wrong. I didn’t mean to.”

“Of course you did,” Liz said.

Timothée liked to think he could have broken anyone. And yet here Elizabeth Chambers was, standing in her former kitchen like a stone wall.

“Look. Forget Armie for a second. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I mean, look at you,” Timothée made a show of looking at her up and down. If it was like Liz said, that hosting was just boobs plus good producing, then she’d followed her own advice to a tee. She was wearing a flattering periwinkle blouse that presented her assets rather subtly and a pair of denim shorts that weren’t rudely short but just enough. She took her ass to the gym and even Timothée could tell. “And I mean, I’m looking at you post-kids.”

She shrugged at this, but maybe looked a little pleased. Timothée barreled on, wanting to press his advantage.

“I think _you_ chose Armie. He didn’t choose you. You could have done better, but you settled. You could have ended up anywhere. Like, Elon Musk anywhere. But you ended up with a B-list actor who’s on a reality show. I want to know why.”

“I have terrible taste?” Liz deadpanned.

“He was cuter way back when?” Timothée tried.

“Don’t try me,” she waved a hand at him and sighed. “I don’t know. I was nearing thirty. I didn’t want to be one of those people who was still single at thirty-five forty and wondering where all the good guys had gone. And you know, it’s hard to find a guy around who’ll date a woman who works in television.”

“Don’t I know it,” said Timothée thinking of Rachel and her trainwreck of a sex life. Glen cackled again and he didn’t want to ruin it this time, so Timothée said nothing.

“So I met Armie at a party,” Liz turned away from him. “There were a couple of famous people there. I think I was trying to land someone for my show. I don’t even remember. All I can remember is that Jimmy Kimmel spilled a drink on my dress.”

“He is annoying,” Timothée agreed. “Let me guess, Armie came barreling in like a hunky gorilla and you fainted.”

“Worse,” she said. “We ran into each other in the bathroom. Someone had busted the lock, so after I got over the shock of him holding his junk, he offered to guard the door for me while I cleaned up. Afterwards he bought me a double gin and tonic and said if he was clumsy and spilt on me at least no one could see.”

“Real charming.”

“He was twenty-four,” Liz smiled, since she wasn’t looking Timothée gestured to the cameras for a closeup. “I mean, that was my first mistake. But he spoke to me like a real person. I didn’t know that people around here could talk like real people anymore. That was the thing I liked most.” She turned towards Timothée again. “Something my grandma used to say. I say it to Harper and Ford now.”

“Yeah? What’d she say?”

“She said, a person shouldn’t be like an onion. Too many layers, and they stink up the place. I remembered thinking that. That Armie wasn’t a fucking onion and I’d won some sort of prize.”

“...I need a beer,” said a certain real person, who was most definitely not an onion. “Excuse me. _Ow_.”

“We’re still filming,” said Timothée. “Out.”

“Motherfuck—”

Armie, in full naked upper-torso glory, bent to rub a spot on his ankle. “Did you have to block the entryway? Doesn't that violate health and safety?”

“Natural light,” said one of the camera guys. “But we are filming.”

“I,” Armie straightened, probably gearing up for a fight. A beer was worth a good fight, but then he saw Timothée and Liz and something in him that seemed to deflate.

“...I’ll regret asking,” Timothée said. “But why are you shirtless?”

“Rachel insisted on shooting the segment with my mom by the pool. It’s getting weird out there. Something about rehabilitating the environment.”

“...Right.”

Armie ran a hand through his damp hair, sun-glistening hair and looked at them both. “Right...okay? Feel sorry enough for me yet? Can I get a fucking beer?”

“I always feel sorry for you,” Timothée told him and meant it. “Let’s all get something to drink.”

—

Armie insisted on pouring his ex-wife a glass of white wine, and Timothée had a weird flashback to a double gin and tonic. He himself accepted a beer from the fridge and was about to perch on the island before he remembered Liz’s reprimand.

“...Can I ask how the kids are?”

“They’re with my mother,” said Liz. “I can’t stay long. I shouldn’t even be drinking.”

“That,” Armie gestured at her wine, “is barely a glass. You’ll be fine.” And then he said, “Thanks for doing this. Really. I know it’s stupid.”

Liz took a sip and rolled her eyes, “You always say that. And it is almost never true.”

“I just have faith in you,” Armie said in a burst of earnestness. “Is that such a bad thing?”

Liz pauses, “Armie. Don’t. Okay, just don’t. I know how this is. You make a mess. I clean up and then I hold my breath until the next mess. You can’t help it and you can. You’re just. The kids miss you. They’re always asking about you, when you’ll get better.” She almost sounded like she was saying something else, and maybe Armie knew it too. He stepped closer to her and she didn’t step away.

“What’d you tell them I had?”

“A virus,” Liz shrugged. “They know what that is.”

“Harper is _three_. How does a three-year-old know about viruses?”

“Okay. Not a virus. Adult chicken pox. Very dangerous.”

“You cruel genius, you.”

"Yeah, and you like it."

Liz shook her head. She drank the rest of her wine, and Armie refilled it with a splash.

Timothée suddenly felt very alone. The feeling was strange enough that he noticed it. He slipped past the line of cameras; after telling Glen to keep filming, he went to find Rachel by the pool.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the girls are ripped from _UnREAL_ , some are not. TW for unsavory views in this chapter, but most of these things have happened on the show...
> 
> Plus, I have decided to up the rating to Explicit, most of these people (but mostly Tim) swear too much for their own good.

“So like...he’s not gay, right?” Brittany (28), a dancer from somewhere local, said. She worked with Alexi and before Timothée had even finished asking him to rec anyone bitchy from the company, Brittany’s name was there. She was in. (“She is,” Alexi said by the way of a ringing endorsement, “the biggest bitch, Timmy. The super biggest!”) “Because like. I don’t date gays.”

“That’s like, super offensive?” Grace (27), a third-generation horsebreeder from somewhere in New England (possibly Greenwich) cut in mockingly. Then she returned to her normal voice, there was a bit of a Latin lilt to her cadence, “You can’t say that anymore. Nothing offensive ever makes it on TV.”

“Yeah?” Brittany snarled. “That rules your sad boob job out then. Bye bye.”

“Those are my real breasts,” Grace returned coldly. “I’m _Brazilian_. Well, Brazilian-American.”

“Whatever, but I have a point,” Brittany pointed out. “That’s the whole point!”

“I think he just needs to find Jesus,” said Faith. She was a cow-eyed girl from Brownville, Nebraska. She was also about six-feet two and looked otherwise terrified. “It doesn’t matter if he’s made a few mistakes in life.”

“No offense, but are you like Virgin Mary or something?” Brittany rolled her eyes. “And _that’s_ super offensive! Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“First amendment?” Grace said. “I did go to university. For journalism.”

Timothée, sitting across from the three girls and wishing that he’d toked up before the cameras started rolling in the limo, sipped his coke with nothing in it. “I think he’s pretty great. I’m sure you’re all going to like him. If he’s got nothing up here,” he tapped his head, “You’re gonna at least love his torso. I’ve seen it. It’s better in real life than the movies.”

They all looked at him.

“Didn’t I say?” said Timothée. “It’s going to be a pool party at Armie’s house.”

Faith looked even more terrified, “I didn’t know we had to bring a swimsuit. I didn’t bring one. I barely even know how to swim!”

“Don’t worry,” Timothée tried to smile at her. “Wardrobe will have extra. You can pick what you like.” With that, the limo pulled to a stop in front of Armie’s house. “...Hang on a minute, girls. I’ll be right back.” To the camera man, who’d probably been mostly concentrated on Grace’s tits, Timothée said. “Keep rolling. Anyone who needs to throw up or piss, tell them to do it on the fucking grass.”

—

Timothée went throughout the mansion and located Armie doing a meet and greet in the conservatory under Rachel’s watchful eye. Armie had just finished saying hello to a Chinese girl in glasses.

“Ching chong, ching chong,” said Rachel. “Would you look at what she’s wearing? I’m rather proud of myself for this one. We get glasses and a kimono. I mean, it’s kind of short notice since the wheelchair chick didn’t make it on, but you know.”

“I’m pretty sure Chinese people don’t wear kimonos,” Timothée said dryly. “What I want to know is, is she named after a fruit or an endangered animal?”

“Got it in one, she goes by Apple and used the “apple of my eye” line that I fed to her before. I am so good.”

“Before you orgasm everywhere, I need to borrow Armie before the next group of girls. Can we cut?”

“Sure yeah,” Rachel gripped her walkie. “Cut! Taking five!”

—

Armie was tugging at his bowtie, “I need a piss. Like fifteen minutes ago.”

“Okay, fine. We’ll go to the master’s suite. I need to talk to you,” Timothée herded Armie up the stairs, sidestepping cameras and a PA who looked lost. She looked about twenty and Timothée told her to go out to the limo.

“Make sure no one pisses on the grass. Or if they have to, make sure no one gets run in for public indecency? There’s no time to bail anyone out of jail tonight. No time!” Timothée gave her ass a smack for good measure. “Go Bambi, go!”

“I’m pretty sure that’s sexual harassment,” said Armie. “Do you even know her real name?”

“I’m pretty sure you don’t know how this works. And I do, it’s I don’t know, Candy or something. Maddie? Something you can either call a stripper or a dog.” Timothée shot back. “Don’t you need to piss?”

“Jesus, remind me never to piss you off.”

In the master’s suite, Timothée locked the door behind them and watched as Armie made the way to the attached bathroom. He only closed the door halfway before Timothée heard piss hitting the edge of the toilet.

“At least close the door.”

“Are you really going to walk in on me?”

“Well, no. But. Jesus.”

This was where Armie and Elizabeth used to sleep as husband and wife. But the room barely looked lived in now. The covers were made. Out of curiosity, Timothée pulled open one of the drawers and found it empty.

“Where do you sleep?”

“What?” Armie’s pissing was not that loud, but he was probably doing this on purpose.

Timothée sat down at the edge of the bed. “Where do you sleep? I didn’t see a doghouse with your name on it out back.”

There was now the sound of rushing water from the sink, “...I moved my stuff into one of the rooms. It’s not like I have a lot of stuff. Not that it’s any of your business, but I sleep on the floor of Ford’s room.”

“Like, his future room?”

“Yes, dickwad, his future room,” Armie stepped out from the bathroom, adjusting his pants. “Was that what you wanted to talk to me about?”

There was something unbelievably sad about Armie Hammer sleeping on the floor of his one-year-old son’s future bedroom. A bedroom he’d probably never see except every other weekend of the month or possibly Wednesdays. Timothée then wondered if Ford would like space. Some kids didn’t, Timothée didn’t particularly think he did, but then, he didn’t gain consciousness until he was five.

“...I bet you hug your bong while you sleep,” Timothée said, and then wished he hadn’t said it. “I’m kidding. I meant to pick your brain about the girls. See anyone you like?”

“Oh, that,” Armie said in the most disinterested tone possible.

“Yes, that.” Timothée leaned back against the mattress and peered up at Armie looming over him. “You know, that thing you’re here for. You’re here because you’re desperate for estrogen. For tits! For cunt! Please don’t look like you’re dying. Half the girls still think you’re gay and one thinks you need to find Jesus. You need to sell it, Hammer. Not look like a zonked out zombie in...is that Armani?”

“She’d get on with Mom,” Armie snorted. “And I’m not gay. I have kids.”

“That’s offensive,” said Timothée. “I might want kids. And I’m gay as a vegan bakery.”

“I have no idea what that means.” Armie sat down next to him. “ _Do_ you want kids? Really?”

“Hell, no. I just wanted to see if I could get a reaction out of you.” Timothée rolled over on his stomach and peered up at Armie. “Seriously, dude. You look so _depressed_. Like someone died.”

“There was a Jewish girl, wasn’t there? What was her name, J something.”

Timothée, in his wisdom, had saved a list of contestants on his phone. “Jacinda, she’s 24 and she works in real estate. Boring. At least go for a dental hygienist. They make more money. Tell you what, there’s a Brazilian bikini model who breeds horses with a journalism degree in the next limo.”

“There’s a what?”

“A Brazilian bikini model who breeds horses and has a journalism degree. From,” Timothée thumbed again. “Harvard. Here, look.”

“Where do you find these people?”

“Trolling Instagram until my eyes bleed,” Timothée said. “Last season we picked up a homeless girl who used to be an opera singer. She made the final four and is now a guest judge on one of those singing shows. I forget which. With Grace you get the complete package. Good sex, child bearing hips in case you want more little Hammers, comes from good money, and she’s got a brain. The unicorn known as sexy wifey.”

“Now you sound like you’re selling a horse. And I still have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Armie’s bowtie was crooked. Without thinking, Timothée raised a hand and didn’t realize what he was doing until there was a warm touch around his wrist.

“The fuck are you doing?” Armie’s hand was around his wrist. The guy had huge hands.

“It’s crooked,” said Timothée. “It’s not like I’m going to jump you. Re-fucking-lax.”

Suddenly, there was an urgent rap on the master bedroom’s door and then Maddie-or-Candy’s voice said, “Tim! Tim! There’s been a, an emergency! Rachel said that I should take care of it, but I um. Please please help me.”

Then Brittany’s voice: “She’s pissed on my fucking _shoes_!”

Then Faith, “I already said I was sorry. I’m really sorry!”

Armie said, “Um.”

Timothée broke the other man’s grasp easily enough. “It’s fine. I got it. There was one season we accidentally poisoned the Suitor’s dog night one.”

“You _what_?”

“The dog was fine,” Timothée heaved himself off the bed. “Fix your bowtie, yeah? And if you’ve hid any booze in here, drink it. I’ll buy you ten minutes. Don't say I don't look out for you.”

“Tim,” said Armie. “Stop a minute.”

“What?” Timothée looked at him. “Actually, never mind. No time. Drink your booze. Bleed puppy dog. You’ll be fine.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope these three chapters made up for the lack of updates lately. I still really love this fic, but finding time to write hasn't been the easiest. Thank you to everyone for being patient and for leaving such wonderful comments and kudos.
> 
> Apologies to anyone from Nebraska, I've actually been to Brownville and I think it's amazing!

“There’s urine on my _shoes_ ,” Brittany wailed. “There’s piss on my new Christian Leboutin shoes! Do you know how much these things _cost_? My sponsors are going to kill me!” She whirled on Timothée who’d just come out of the master bedroom. “This is all your fault! You and.” 

“Alexi?” He supplied helpfully and she’d just made an annoyed noise in her throat.

Candy-or-Maddie was wringing her hands, “Oh, gosh. I should look at the budget and.” 

“Nobody is looking at any budgets,” Timothée said. “Like seriously, Candy, do you think Luca would let you anywhere near our budget?” 

“My name,” the PA looked at him, “is Madison. No one calls me Maddie. Or Bambi.” She was trying for icy a la Rachel, but she ended up mostly watery. 

“Okay, well, _Madison_. Madison, I want you to take Brittany into the bathroom by the kitchen and help her clean her goddamn shoes.”

Brittany tittered, “But they’re expensive.” 

“Do I look like I care?” Timothée said. This was all part of the day-to-day, but honestly, some of these girls were trying and they weren’t even halfway through the end of night one. “Go! And change into a bikini while you’re at it. We’re moving towards the pool party portion of the night. Go, go, go. I might as well record myself saying these things the way you sloths are moving. _Go_!” 

As Brittany and Madison moved away, Faith stayed still, wringing her hands, “I wish you wouldn’t do that, Tim. Use the Lord’s name in vain. Don’t you think it’s obscene?” 

“Me? No.” Tim exhaled deeply, “Look I. I don’t believe, okay? But I respect that you do.” He took her by the arm. “I do think you’re really brave, coming here. But I think you’d really, what’s the word.” He frowned deeply, and then snapped his fingers, “I think you’d really miss out on a lot. If you don’t try you new things.”

Faith opened her mouth and closed it. The girl desperately needed someone to tell her how to do makeup. She looked a bit like a clown. “Maybe you’re right. But I…” 

“I’m glad you agree with me,” Timothée said. “Which is why I have a surprise for you. Would you like to meet Armie? It’ll put you way ahead of the other girls.” 

“ _Oh_ ,” Her face lit up. “Oh, but isn’t that,” Faith lowered her voice and Timothée leaned up to offer his ear. “Isn’t that against the rules?” 

“Are you going to tell?” Timothée raised his eyebrows at her. “Because I’m not. And Glen isn’t.” 

“What am I not telling about?” Glen quipped. 

“ _How_ do you still work here?” 

“ ‘M a wizard?” Glen offered, “...Never mind.” 

“Maybe I should fix my hair. And make sure I don’t smell like urine,” Faith said. She pronounced it u-RINE in two neat syllables. “I’m not very good about this girly stuff.” 

“Trust me,” Timothée tightened his grip on Faith’s arm. “I think at this point that’s going to be refreshing for Armie. It’ll be a real breath of fresh air.” He went up to the door of the master bedroom and knocked loudly.

“Armie? Armie, it’s Tim. I got someone with me that you’ll want to meet. Can we come in?” 

There was vague shuffling on the other side of the door. “One minute. Okay, yes. Yeah. Please.” 

Timothée pushed the door open, dragging Faith with him and Glen following close behind. Then he closed the door again. Armie stood at attention beside his marital bed and some part of this man must have been an actor because his eyes were shining like stars. Good, the boy’s head was in the game...barring that, he had booze swimming in his blood. 

Faith had a healthy amount of red in her cheeks, “I can’t believe I’m meeting Armie Hammer! I’ve seen all your movies.” 

Armie was a man possibly starved for positive attention, because those words left him looking like someone had hit him with a mean right hook. “Well, uh. Thanks. And you’re…?” 

“I’m,” Faith turned to Timothée, and he gave her a thumbs up. “I’m Faith. From Brownville.” 

“Where’s that?” He took her hands and the red went all the way down her neck to even her shoulder blades. It was a lot of red, Timothée made a mental note to have a word with editing.

“It’s in Nebraska, can’t you tell by my accent? People always tell me I sound really local. I haven’t really left the state until now.” 

“Really?” Armie was starting to look bored, but he put up a burst of surprise, “I mean, is there even anything to do there? I would have.” 

Timothée coughed, loudly. 

“...What do you make of California?” Like a good dog, Armie changed tact. “I mean, I’ve always lived here, I think it’s amazing. There are beaches everywhere and you can go swimming all the time and I think it’s just an amazing place. I’m excited for the pool party later. Are you?” 

“We should bring back the ‘amazing’ jar,” Glen hissed to Timothée from behind his handheld. “The last time we did that we made a lot of money. Covered booze for the whole of the wrap party.” 

“— No, we’re not bringing back your one good idea. And shut up, watch this.” 

Faith’s expression held up bravely for a few moments, and then she looked down at her shoes again, “I’ve never really been in a swimsuit. I’m a Christian. I’m just. I’m sorry, I’m really nervous.” 

Timothée pointedly ignored the look that Armie shot in his direction, somewhere between “you asshole” and “that’s a low blow.” 

“Why are you nervous?” said Armie.

Faith said, “Oh, but you have a wonderful group of girls here and they’re all. I don’t know. Not awkward, so sexy. That’s not,” she gestured a little helplessly at herself. “That’s not me at all.” 

Armie looked like “You shouldn’t be, I bet you, uh. I bet you have a wonderful body. I’d love to see you in a swimsuit. And I don’t want you to be like all the other girls. I like people who are different.” He sounded like he was chewing nails and Faith went even more red. 

“And cut,” Timothée clapped his hands. “That’s good for now. I’ll probably get yelled at for keeping the Suitor so long anyway to myself.” But of course, he wasn’t particularly worried. “Hey, Glen? Do me a favor and take Faith to wardrobe. We’ll get her nice and sexed up. I’ll trust your taste, Glen. Don’t let me down!”

—

“That was whiplash,” said Armie once they were alone again. He went to the walk-in closet and came back with a half full bottle of vodka. “She’s probably thinking that I’ll burn in hell and she’s telling me that she’s seen all my films.” He uncapped it and took a swig. “I think I got goosebumps from all that subconscious judgment.”

“So she likes you; I bet she secretly masturbates to your shirtless scenes and has to pray about it after,” said Timothée shrugged. When Armie offered him the vodka, he took a swig too. “And pick a metaphor. My head fucking hurts. Nice touch there with the wonderful body, by the way. Let’s face it, she looks like a cow. I’ll talk to editing to play up the moment. It’s very body-positive.”

“She looks like she’s from Nebraska.” 

Timothée snorted, “You’re nicer than I am. And that’s good. America likes nice and hot all rolled into one. Even a bit of hipster hot since you like ‘different’ girls. I like that. We can achieve fuckable by the end of the evening.” 

The door was a little ajar and Armie got up to close it. The vodka bottle suddenly felt heavy in Timothée’s grasp. 

“I don’t think you want me to like any of these people,” said Armie. 

“No, I want you to fall in love with all of these people. On television. In a narratively effective manner so people don’t remember you as that guy who keeps sucking dick by the pool. But hey, I guess if Hollywood doesn’t like you you can always look into doing porn. That’s another redemption story: **Ex-Actor Goes Into Porn, Doesn’t Give a Fuck.**.” 

(If anything, Timothée was a bit proud of himself for that, as opposed to Armie, who didn’t look too impressed.) 

“Can you stop putting it like that?” Armie took the bottle from him. “Because it’s not. That story’s been told at least fifty times by God knows how many papers, and you know what? No one’s ever asked _me_ for a comment. They ask Liz, they’ve even called up my exes, but I never get any calls. It’s like, it’s like they want to squeeze me out of something? Like it’s not my story anymore.” Armie sighed noisily against the mouth of the vodka. “I mean, sure, I’d like it if it wasn’t, but not like this.” 

“Or maybe they call your agent and your agent conveniently forgets to tell you?” Timothée offered. “I mean. No offense or anything, but you’re lead on your feet and you don’t exactly um. Come off very well. I bet you even Madison can see that.” 

Armie blinked, “Who?” 

“Bambi,” said Timothée. “Madison’s her real name. Told you I knew it.”

“Right.” Armie’s mouth twisted. “How would you do it then? How would you, say, _produce_ the situation?” 

“You’re trying to produce me,” Timothée grinned. “That’s a start. But I’m not easy.” 

“No shit.” 

A loud knock sounded on the door again.

Rachel: “Boy Wonder! You better not be letting the Suitor suck your dick! And what did you fucking do to my villain? What’s this about a pair of shoes?” 

Armie coughed loudly into his vodka. Timothée smacked him loudly on the back. 

“What,” said Timothée. “You’d suck my dick?” 

“I’d rather see a cow in a swimsuit,” Armie said. Maybe he was a fast learner, after all.


	13. Chapter 13

“...I don’t think it’s a big deal,” said Timothée. “I mean, it’s a pair of shoes.”

“Is that the one thing that gay men don’t get?” Rachel looked at him, “How obsessive women can get about their shoes? Let me make this clear, _I_ don’t get it. But it’s night one and we have,” here, her voice shifts towards what she called Timothée’s east coast draw. Timothée had been born in New York, but traded coasts on the account of his mother’s work when he was about ten. He didn’t think he sounded particularly east coast or anything, but Hollywood was so entrenched in self-pity, self-care, self-promotion, self-whatever that they were starved for difference.“We have to make the contestants feel _special_. Like widdle babies. And I need my villain! I need someone to get their tits out and make everyone else jealous! Where is my drama, Chai Latte?”

“Chalamet, but never mind, Goldilocks.”

“What’s that?”

“I don’t see why you need my help, anyway,” Timothée was holding a champagne flute that was half empty. He necked the rest of it, and wondered if he was drinking too much. He still needed to drive home. “I thought you were a Queen in your own right.”

“Yes, but I’m the showrunner since Luca is off snorting coke with Chet. I have other things to do,” her smirk widened, “Like making sure Mr. Hammer gets into a speedo. It’s for a good cause, it’s going to make every housewife wet in America. God bless this country.”

“He is never going to get into a speedo for you,” Timothée said.

“Wanna put some money on that?”

“What, like five dollars?”

“Chickenshit,” Rachel was already handing off her headset to one of the A. D.s “At least fifty.”

“I don’t carry that much cash,” Timothée shrugged. “But if I can Venmo it to you.”

“Oh, so you think you’ll lose? Wonder _boy_ , you disappoint me.”

“Fuck off,” Timothée flipped her off and turned his back. “I bet I can get you at least three pairs of tits and one cat fight.”

“I look forward to that,” and Rachel did. She almost looked turned on.

“You know,” said the A. D. who wasn’t Glen, he handed Tim a walkie. He had another bland monosyllable name. Ben probably. “One of these days, you guys _are_ going to have to fuck it out. She’s super into anal.”

“I’d rather,” Timothée started and then stopped. He was going to remove himself now, and go forth in search of tits.

—

The pool party was in full swing and the champagne was still flowing. There had already a couple of disagreements, but nothing of note. Nothing catfight worthy. In fact, Timothée was bored enough to start wondering if the DJ would be amenable to...something. He wasn’t sure what yet.

“Hey, you’re Tim, right?” A hand was on his shoulder. Timothée turned to see Jacinda-the-boring-realtor. She was living up to her boring-ness because she was wearing a large over-sized t-shirt with the words **Add Champagne for FUN**. “One of the producers? Can I talk to you?”

“I’m uh,” Jacinda was one of Madison’s girls. Rachel had insisted and Luca hadn’t had an opinion. It was fair. Madison had gotten Apple too, but Apple was in a drab one piece and wearing goggles. “Madison’s your producer, Jacinda. If you need anything, you talk to her.”

“I would, but Madison’s been in the bathroom for half an hour. I really need to talk to someone.”

Timothée sucked in a deep breath, “Okay. Okay, come on.”

He led her through to the conservatory to the kitchen, to the walk in pantry. He thought to look around for ingredients in a mix grill, but then Timothée remembered that most of those things would be in the fridge, if they were anywhere at all.

“What?” Timothée tugged at the edge of her t-shirt. “First of all, explain to me why you’re not in a swimsuit. It’s a pool party. Not a Halloween party where you get to dress up like Mother Teresa.”

Jacinda’s eyes darted nervously throughout the pantry, “There are no cameras in here, right? Can you turn that off?” She gestured to his headset.

“It’s off. I only have it on sometimes. I’d hate Rachel buzzing in my ear all the time.” Timothée settled the headset around his neck. Of course he was lying, but she didn’t have to know that yet. “Sweetie, it’s just you and me. Spill.”

“I feel horrible,” Jacinda said, twirling a lock of auburn hair around her fingers. “But I lied in my prep interviews. Are they going to kick me off the show?”

Timothée thumbed through his phone. By all rights, Jacinda’s background and information was all boring. She’d taken a year off school at Texas A&M where she’d studied economics but then had come back to finish her degree with average grades. Her workplace specialized in lakeside properties which was kind of interesting if one was in the market for prime real estate. Her biggest fear was not being accepted for who she was. Timothée couldn’t think of a single guy who wouldn’t accept a blank canvas for who she was as long as she was willing to put out. There was nothing remotely offensive in her bio. Her breasts looked all right, it couldn't be that.

“Honey, there is no combobulated they, okay?” Timothée put his arms around her. “I mean, sure, there are cameras, but there’s like, no Big Brother wanting to ruin your life or anything. Full disclosure,” he held up his hands, “Sometimes we have to play things up a little, and you probably have to come clean to Armie if you want to stay on the show, but that’s totally up to you. That’s your choice.”

“I know some guys don’t like damaged girls.” Jacinda said, “I’m always told that on third dates, where I get dumped. So I stopped telling people, and.”

“Hey, hey,” Timothée took her hand and squeezed it. “Thank you. Thank you for even considering telling me. Whatever it is, I’m with you. Madison’s with you. And Armie’s been divorced, I’m sure he knows a thing or two about being damaged.”

“You sure?”

“Of course I’m sure, sweetie. Come on,” he tugged at her t-shirt again. “Take this off.”

—

“Madison!” Timothée pounded on the door of the kitchen bathroom. “Are you still in there?”

“The shoes still smell,” came the meek reply. “Are you sure you can’t talk to Luca or Rachel about the budget?”

“You better fucking talk to him about the budget,” Brittany snarled.

“Fuck the shoes,” said Timothée. “Seriously, Brittany. You’ve not had any time with Armie and the only footage we have of you is you screaming about a pair of stupid shoes. Airtime, that’s what your ‘sponsors’ care about. Everyone’s getting their tits out now and going barefoot.”

The bathroom door unlocked itself and Madison scurried out. Brittany stood barefoot with her hands on her hips, “I hate you. You and your fucking boyfriend.”

“We don’t like you either,” Timothée said. “But after I tell you this tidbit you might want to suck my cock. If you want to survive past night one, listen to everything I say. — Madison!”

“ — Y-yes?”

“You have other girls, don’t you? Including one having a mental breakdown in the pantry. Go away.”

Once she was off again, Timothée stepped into the bathroom and made Brittany sit on top of the closed toilet. The room still reeked of dried piss, but he had better things to do and this was not his job. This was why they’d reinsured every bit of Armie’s mansion and put rugs everywhere that booze was kept. They could say they tried, piss on the lawn grass notwithstanding.

“I give good blow jobs,” Brittany said, holding half of her dress as she sat gingerly on the edge of the seat. “But no way.”

“I’ll do you one better,” Timothée crossed his arms. “I give better ones and I don’t want one from you. What I want you to do, is go out call out one of the girls for being a fake-ass bitch. I mean, you’re different, right? You’re here for the exposure and the man. You haven’t hidden that. Armie doesn’t need any fake girls who lie to their boyfriends right off the bat. Right? That’s something we can agree on? Alexi said you’re bitchiness was superb. Now prove it to me.”

“Fine, whatever,” Brittany shrugged. “Help me undo my bra? The hook is annoying. I don’t want to scratch myself.”

There was a reason, Timothée reminded himself, that he preferred bitches. If nothing else, they were always honest.


	14. Chapter 14

Graham was the host of _Everlasting_. He was in his mid-forties and he’d probably slept with enough contestants to fill out his own season. There was a joke amongst the producers (namely Timothée and Rachel) that if they ever wanted the show to go down in dumpster fire ratings, they’d make Graham the Suitor and Luca the host.

(They couldn’t realistically do any of those things, but it was nice to think about.)

In keeping with the theme, Graham was wearing a ridiculous sunhat and flowery pair of swim trunks. Never mind that it was nighttime. 

“Please someone,” Rachel was speaking into her walkie, “Someone fix Graham’s attempt at a self-tan. It’s fucking embarrassing. And it’s nighttime. Graham, hat off!” 

Faith had since re-emerged to join the group into a hideous turquoise two-piece. At the very least, someone had fixed her makeup. Timothée made a note to buy Glen a drink. 

“Ladies, ladies, looking ever gorgeous, every, uh and I mean every last one of you,” Graham said. He winced and Timothée could not exactly tell who at. “Who’s excited to meet our Suitor? I know many of you haven’t had time with him yet, but the night’s still young! Make the most of it!” 

“...Why did I let you talk me into this?” said Armie’s voice near his elbow. But the first thing that Timothée noticed wasn’t Armie so much as.

“...Dude, I was betting for your _pride_. Hammer, you’ve let me down.” 

“I don’t think I have any left,” Armie said, in nothing but a speedo. On full display was the outline of his balls and his. Nope. “What bet?” 

“Never mind,” Timothée was eyed him and kept his eyes on Armie’s throat, “Aren’t you cold?” 

“It’s summer.”

“Victoria’s Secret models wear more during the summer. Like Jesus.” Timothée snapped his fingers and another P. A. materialized beside him. 

“Yes?” 

“Go to the master’s suite and grab me a shirt for the suitor. Do this in the next fifteen seconds and i’ll give you twenty bucks.” 

The P. A. went and Armie raised his eyebrows, “Thank you, I guess? For protecting my nonexistent dignity?” 

“We’ve reached peak fuckable what with Faith practically wetting herself just now,” said Timothée with a careful shrug. “You’re going to give a speech. About mistakes. About taking responsibility. About honesty. Otherwise people are going to think you’re no good for anything but a fuck. I wouldn’t give that speech naked, would you? I mean, you could. It’d be metaphorically good for you to do that, but I still wouldn’t.” 

“...Is that what you think? Or are you reading the latest Gallup poll?” 

“You’re kidding, right?” Timothée gave him a look, “I check Twitter? So far there’s been one really interesting Tweet that’s been retweeted nearly two thousand times. Let’s see, where is — aha. ‘Armie Hammer on @Everlasting next Mon omg what a hot dog. Hammer me plz.’ There is another one that wants you to eat her. But at least #hammerme and #hammertime are trending. Its redheaded typo #hummertime is doing its rounds too.” 

“I think I’d like to throw up,” said Armie. When the P. A. returned with the shirt he probably wore with his tux, Armie practically yanked it away from him.

“— And here’s your Suitor, Armie!” 

“I hate you,” Armie shrugged on the shirt. 

“Everyone does,” said Timothée. At this point, it might as well be a fact of life. 

“Wait, wait, wait.” Rachel cut in, “What the hell do you think you’re doing? We talked about this, the shirt goes.” 

Graham was turning around towards the cameras, “Where is he? Anyone seen him?” 

“He’s here, just. Cut!” Rachel crossed her arms and seemed to grow a full feet and a half with her glare. “Take. It. Off.” 

Armie twisted his mouth at her, “If I’m going to make a speech I’m not doing it in a speedo, Rachel.”

“What speech?” 

“The one that makes #hummertime stop trending?” Timothée suggested. “That is a hell of a typo. Don’t mind me, I think it’s hilarious. And remember, we said _just_ a speedo.” 

Rachel looked at him for a long moment, “Okay. Fine. You win, but not really.” She got out a wrinkled fifty from her pocket and slapped it into Timothée’s hand. “At least you can still see his balls.”

—

“And here’s your suitor, Armie!”

The clapping intensified and the unmistakable presence of Armie’s balls and his ____ got more than a few catcalls and whistles. 

“Wow, thanks.” Armie said, “Don’t I feel like a hunk of meat.” 

That got a laugh. 

“First of all, I’d like to thank everyone for taking the time to be here, for sacrificing what you do to be here,” Armie clapped his hands together. “I mean, I don’t know about you girls, but I already miss my phone.” 

More laughter.

“He’s a regular standup comedian, isn’t he?” said Rachel. 

“I can probably spend all night telling each and every,” because Armie was learning the game, he made sure his eyes stopped on Faith for a moment and she went completely lobster red. “Each and every one of you how lovely and wonderful you all look, I’m not really here for that tonight or this season. But you do all look _amazing_.” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, “Look, I think all of you probably have some sort of opinion about me. Some of those opinions, they’re probably true, but as much as I want to give you all a chance, I only ask that you give me a chance too. That’s all I want. A chance. _Tabula Rasa_.”

“A what?” Another girl said.

“Would you look at that,” Rachel grinned. “Prince Charming knows Latin. We’ll have to cut that though. People will be reaching for dictionaries. That’s so not sexy.”

“I think it’s all about Google Translate now,” said Timothée but he was a little surprised too. 

“Oh. My. God.” Right on cue, Brittany entered from the conservatory, which meant the camera caught her very naked top half in full view. She sauntered right up to Armie who nearly looked like he wanted to die. “Hello, hunky. How dare you start this without me? I’m Brittany. I’m a dancer, which means,” she leaned in to nibble Armie’s ear, “I’m flexible as you’d like.” 

“She’s _naked_!” Grace, the Brazilian-model-horsebreeder-cum journalist said reliably. “What a skank.” 

“That’s not very nice,” said someone else. Possibly Apple. 

“Can we please please cut,” Armie twisted his head to look towards the cameras. “Please.”

“Keep rolling,” said Rachel. “I want camera A on Armie, camera B on the girls.” 

Brittany clasped her arms like iron Armie’s neck and pressed into him, “Oh, yeah. That feels nice and honest. And you know what? I’m an honest person. I’m the most honest out of you bitches. Unlike some of you. Especially one of you. Lying’s no way to start a relationship, am I right, Armie?” 

She searched the crowd of girls with a steely eye and settled on Jacinda, who was sitting by the pool’s edge with her still t-shirt on. 

Rachel nudged one of the A. D.s, “Push in on Jacinda. Let’s get tears. Tears are a classic night one staple! We gotta have them.” 

“Oh my _God_. Get off of him.” It seemed like Grace and some of the girls had had enough, they’d converged on Brittany to push her in the pool. She squealed loudly and then there was a splash, a tangle of skinny limbs and maybe someone choking. 

“And there you go,” Timothée said. “Cat fight. I’m sure some tops will fall off. Is the medic on standby?” 

Rachel squeezed his elbow, “I love you, Tim. I really really do.”

—

“I feel violated.” Armie said. “What the _fuck_. And why does this room smell like piss?”

“It _is_ a bathroom,” said Timothée reasonably. “You okay?” 

“I’m fine,” Armie brushed a hand through his hair. “But seriously. What the fuck.” 

Timothée shrugged, “It happens.”

Armie held his gaze for a long moment, gave up, “What was Brittany talking about anyway?” 

“I’m glad you asked,” Timothée took his arm. It was damp, “Let’s go ask her. I think she’s in the. Hang on,” he spoke into his walkie, “Madison? Madison, where’s Jacinda?” 

There was a brief staticky cackle, and then Madison’s voice: “The Master’s suite.”

“Good girl. You’re learning about continuity. Give us ten seconds.” 

Armie followed him out of the bathroom and up the stairs, “I don’t like this. It feels exploitative.” 

“Tough shit. So give her a cuddle and tell her everything’s going to be fine.” 

“Everything’s not, though.” Armie put his hand on the doorknob, “You coming?” 

“Nope. She’s Madison’s girl. There should be a camera in there already. I can watch from here.” 

“Creep,” said Armie, and went. 

Timothée leaned against the closed door of the master bedroom and pulled up the appropriate feed on his phone. There was a bit of shuffling and then Armie joined a sobbing Jacinda in the frame. He really should not be sitting down in that speedo. 

“Hey,” Armie said. “Can I sit here?” 

Jacinda looked at him, “You’re going to cut me, aren’t you? I didn’t lie.” 

“Well, maybe Brittany was making things up,” Armie agreed. “...She was naked and a little crazy. And people make things up on TV like all the time.” 

“I mean, I.” Jacinda leaned towards him and Armie pulled her in for a hug. “I’m sorry. I didn’t lie, but I.” She hiccuped loudly into Armie’s shoulder. 

“Shh,” Armie’s mouth touched her temple and he sifted long fingers through her hair. “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay. You don’t have to tell me today. Let’s just sit here for a little while.” 

Timothée shut off the feed and took a deep breath.


	15. Chapter 15

“I think he’s going to cut Brittany,” Timothée sucked thoughtfully on a cigarette. “Which is I guess a good thing because we’ve probably given her a concussion. Not to mention that little romp bruised her boob.” 

“You mean Giselle did,” Rachel said. “Did you see the girl went after Brittany in the water? That’s practically a football tackle. Have I taught you nothing about plausible deniability?” 

“Who?” 

“I mean, whatsherface, bikini model. Grace. That girl’s got thighs.” Rachel plucked the cigarette out of Timothée grasp and inhaled deeply from it. “That’s why you’re number two. You have to make him keep Brittany. Otherwise I won’t have a villain. We can’t do a season without a villain.” 

“I think Grace would make a good villain.” 

“Who’s ever heard of a villain wifey?” 

Timothée sighed, “Season ten?” Before his time, but Timothée had prepped extensively for his interview. Things seemed more important then. “Look, we had a nice moment with Armie and Jacinda in the master’s suite. If he keeps Brittany then the moment’s gonna not seem genuine.” 

Rachel looked at him for a prolonged minute, “...So we’re all about body positivity and bigging up Armie as a white knight this season? Bo-ring. Even if he gets his balls out every week.” 

“It’d be nice if we can have a straightforward season for once,” Timothée shrugged. “I’m just saying. Sell true love. Show some sideboob. Maybe have an ex boyfriend or two show up. But nothing crazy.”

Rachel’s gaze didn’t move. And then she laughed, “Oh, my God.” 

“What.”

“You like him. You want hummer time.” She made a humming sound in her throat and wrapped a hand around her own neck and emitted a gagged exhale. 

Timothée snatched back his cigarette and puffed as calmly as he could, “I do not. And he probably doesn’t even give good head. Never mind freaky choke sex. I don’t want to know what kind of shit you’re into.” 

“Right…” Rachel shook her head. “This is all in the name of good television then.”

“Course it is. Rachel, there’s trashy TV, and then there’s. Well, TV that is trashy but at least self aware.” 

“And that’s what you are? Self aware.” Rachel stood, “Look, we’re shooting the elimination ceremony in fifteen minutes. Armie _is_ going to keep Brittany. I need her. End of. Isn’t your boyfriend going to be iffy about this?” 

“About what?” Timothée said, perhaps a bit too sharply. 

“Hello, defensive much?” Rachel grinned a little. “Get to it.”

—

Timothée found Armie lying facedown on the master bedroom still in nothing but his speedo. He poked the man experimentally in the thigh. “Hey. You’re not allowed.”

“To do what, Tim?” Armie shifted to look at him. “This whole evening’s been a fucking trainwreck. Is Brittany okay?” 

“Her ego’s bruised,” Timothée said, taking a seat. “As is her left boob but she’ll live. If you were so worried about her you could have checked in.” 

“What, and leave Jacinda a bawling mess?” Armie made a half snort and raised himself up on his elbows. “I was taught to be polite. I was raised _good_.” As if saying that twice made it any more true, “ It wasn’t you, was it?” 

“It wasn’t me what?” 

“Who did whatever it was, that made her. You know.” 

“I’d rather let her tell you. Her story, her voice, _et cetera_.” Timothée shrugged. “Authenticity makes good television. We even made a girl go all _naturale_.”

“Yes, because having a pile of girls trying to kill each other is natural. It’s 2018!” 

Timothée opened his mouth and then closed it again, “...2018 does seem to be the year of massive regression, doesn’t it? Look, I’ll come out and say it, okay? I don’t agree with this. But Rachel wants you to keep Brittany. Not forever, but we need to build her arc as a villain at least for a few episodes. She’s a hook.” 

Armie stared at him as if he’d grown some sort of abscess somewhere obvious, “I should have,” he started, and then shut up too. Then he cleared his throat, “Is that how all you people talk now? You must be crazy, Tim, if you think I’m keeping her. Everything else I’ve seen tonight, if we take away the fact that we’re on live television, I’d never want a wife that randomly takes her clothes off like that in public. Elizabeth would —” 

“Elizabeth what?” 

“...Never do that.” Armie said, like he was chewing nails and glass again. 

“Well, I’m sure she hadn’t counted on a husband that’s been entertaining the tabloids for months on account of,” Timothée sighed. “Do you love her?” That question tasted weird in his mouth.

“Of course I love my wife.” 

Timothée swallowed, “Ex-wife.” 

“Well, I wasn’t the one that wanted to get divorced,” said Armie. “Not that it’s any of your fucking business, Tim. I’ve still got a few minutes, yeah?”

Timothée was grateful for a chance to check his phone, “Yes. Seven, before you’re due in the conservatory in your suit again.” 

“At least let me get dressed in peace. I’m not keeping Brittany.” Armie heaved himself off the bed and went into the walk-in closet, “That’s final. Now go away.” 

Timothée got up too and in spite of Armie’s instructions, followed him to the doorway of his closet. Armie was gurgling vodka. “ _Please_ keep Brittany? I promise I’ll humiliate her in her final episode. We’ll get her the exit she deserves. You’re right, public indecency is a big problem and women should keep their boobs in check.” 

“You’re nuts,” Armie winced and swallowed. “No.”

Armie was pulling down his speedo, and Timothée quickly turned away, “Let’s make a deal.” 

More shuffling, “Not interested.” 

Timothée inhaled a sharp breath, “I can get you back with Elizabeth.” He spoke quickly, before Armie realized he was spewing shit and or worse, before Timothée himself realized he was full of shit. “I can do it. We’ve got two months; that's _forever_ on camera. You can propose to her on live national television again for the finale. You can have your kids back. You have your image back. You can have everything you’ve fucking ever wanted. And we’ll have a season, but whatever. That's not important. We'll get to do that again next year with some other hot Joe schmuck, your scheduled shitshow tonight at 9/10 central.” 

There was a silence. 

“...Are you serious?” 

“As a fucking heart attack.” 

“Then,” Armie sighed noisily. “Yes. Okay. But you have to promise.” He sounded five, and suddenly there was a lump in Timothée’s throat he couldn’t get rid of. 

“...I promise,” Timothée said with his eyes closed. “I promise, promise promise. It’s something my mom used to say. If you promise somebody three times and don’t keep the promise you’re cursed for life.” 

Armie laughed, “Yeah, right.” 

Timothée rubbed at his eyes. He was exhausted and he wanted another drink. The idea of him driving safely home had sailed with his last glass of champagne. Might as well see the night through.

“If you give me some of that vodka, I’ll leave you alone.”


	16. Chapter 16

In the next seven minutes, Timothée had managed to: a.) swallow about three shots of vodka

b.) Google ‘Chinese kimono’ on his phone (it was called a _qipao_ which gave him a much-needed laugh when he thought about it in his head) and

c.) “He’s keeping Brittany right?”

“I’m sorry?”

Rachel waved a hand in his face, “Hello? God, you smell.” She said, a little louder and straight in his ear, “I said. He’s going to keep Brittany? Because Armie’s just given a rose to Apple who has had next to no screen-time whatsoever. She doesn’t even speak any English! And there’s only one rose left. You better not fuck this up, Wonder Boy.”

“ ‘M not,” Timothée said. There was only a handful of girls left without roses. Brittany, in deep red and a bandage over her forehead and no shoes, stood out like a sore, pouting, red lipsticked thumb. “Watch this.”

Graham had stepped in to give his customary “ladies, Armie, this is the last rose of the evening, whenever you’re ready blah blah” spiel. Timothée had since stopped trying to take that away from Graham because apparently it hurt his feelings. The fact that Timothée had apparently deadpanned, _at least it doesn’t hurt his dick_ , needless to say, didn’t win him any favors with the guy.

Armie stepped up, straight bowtie and nearly perfectly geled hair. He picked up the last rose and looked at the girls.

Timothée didn’t think he was breathing. And Rachel, who was entirely too close to him, didn’t seem to be breathing either.

“I have had a lot of fun getting to know all of you,” Armie said. “It’s been a privilege, it really has.”

Rachel snorted.

“But like I said earlier, I am here for a second chance, and I think there’s one girl here that really deserves that from me,” Armie said. “Brittany.”

To her credit, Brittany’s expression went through a fairly convincing narrative arc in the space of about three seconds, from ‘is he insulting me?’ to ‘I guess he isn’t.’ When she walked up to Armie, she hitched on a simpering smile.

“”Brittany, will you accept this rose?”

“Yes!” She was almost giddy. Between hugging Armie and taking the rose, she’d managed to roll her eyes at Grace in particular. Not to be outdone, Grace gave her the finger.

“Yes! Villain versus wifey finale, we’re in the _house_.” Rachel punched the air. “Except it’s wifey with a backbone. So hot.” She cuffed an arm around Timothée’s shoulder, which was odd because she was short. “I could make love to you so hard right now. Really. Great fucking work tonight all around. We’ll have to tell Luca about this once he’s well. Whatever.”

“...Thanks. I think.”

There must have been something in his voice that made Rachel let go of him and her expression twisted into something like concern, “Hey. What’s up? You okay?”

“Huh?” Timothée blinked. “Yeah. Fine. Just feeling the vodka.”

“Oh, well, that’s fine then.” She clapped him on the shoulder again in a friendly way and then raised her voice. “Okay, cut! Limos, people, limos! Let’s get the fuck out of here!”

—

Wherever Alexi was, it was loud. Most of what filled the other end was an insistent bassline that made Timothée’s head hurt even more than it already did.

“I said you should come get me. That’s what I said.” Timothée said again, probably for the third time. “Where the hell are you?”

“Or you can come here,” said Alexi. “Since you’re already drinking at work. I don’t do that.”

“Alexi, it’s like, eleven. The only thing I want to do is go to bed.” Timothée sank down by the carpeted stairs. It smelled like stale champagne, “And you didn’t even tell me where you are.”

“Oh, did I not? I’m at Lure. We can walk home. Come on, Timmy.”

Now Timothée knew he was mid-twenties the same way he knew Alexi was just living the way a certain pedigree of dancers lived. They brought a new meaning to working hard and playing hard while Timothée couldn’t handle three shots of vodka. Or, no. That wasn’t fair; he’d been drinking before then.

“I got good coke,” said Alexi in a singsong voice. “Like really really good. I’ll save you some.”

“Dude,” said Timothée. “Seriously. That shit again?”

“That shit is _amazing_ ,” Alexi said. “I know what you’re gonna say, right, that I can’t handle it or that I’m not going to be careful but you know, I’m way careful.”

“— Tim?” Came Armie’s voice from somewhere close by. “That you? I thought everyone’d gone.”

Timothée sighed through his teeth, “Alexi, you know I’m not happy about this.”

“You’re never happy about anything.”

“I’m just unhappy about you,” _doing coke when you’re post-rehab and you’re at a shitty club_. Somehow, the idea that Armie was nearby was waylaid for the moment because Timothée hadn’t turned around. He didn’t know if he was ever going to turn around. “Please just be careful.”

“Yes, Mom. Just the tip.”

“That doesn’t even make any sense.” Timothée shook his head. “I’m hanging up now.”

Timothée burrowed deeper into the carpet and tried to ignore the toe poking at his head, “Go away.”

“You’re in my house,” said Armie. “Are you okay?”

“I’m not sure,” Timothée rolled his eyes up. Armie had changed for bed, it seemed. He was wearing his **hangover cure** t-shirt again and a pair of loose striped cotton pants. “Probably. My boyfriend’s at a club and I’m too drunk to get home. I can get a taxi. I’ll do that. Or sleep in my car.”

“My therapist says,” Armie starts and then shakes it off, “let me get you some water. Come on. Up.”

Timothée stared at Armie’s outstretched hand for a moment to make sure the man had all five of his fingers before letting himself be hauled to his feet. Then he followed Armie into his kitchen. All things considered, the damage wasn’t terrible. Timothée lifted himself up on one of the islands as Armie fetched a glass and dispensed water from his fridge.

“Here,” Armie shoved the glass into his hand. “You know.”

“I know. I’m not supposed to sit on the island,” Timothée mumbled against the glass. “Food is being prepared on there. The last thing you need is my ass.”

“What are you talking about?” Armie looked at him evenly. “I was going to say, you know, you don’t have to call a taxi or sleep in your car. How is that even in your head, sleep in your car?”

Timothée gulped water noisily and wiped at his mouth. Actually, he wasn’t that drunk. He was only drunk because he wasn’t in a strange place, with a nearly strange guy, and fucking Alexi was probably about to do coke. If Timothée really rationalized it, the first few times weren’t so bad. But the thing about coke and other things like it, was that it always got worse.

“I was homeless for a week once waiting for my new lease to start. I’ve done it before, it’s not a big deal. My Mom didn’t buy me a mansion.”

Armie looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t rise to the bait. What he did say was, “All the cameras are gone?”

“Yep,” Timothée peered at him. “Why are you not drunk? You were practically inhaling the vodka all night.”

“Because I’m sad and I have depression,” said Armie without even thinking about it. Timothée didn’t think it was a joke. “Come upstairs and toke up with me.”

“I thought you couldn’t get any weed,” Timothée reminded him. “If you really only have two hits left I’d rather you keep it.”

“That is noble of you, dude.”

“Yeah, noble. That’s me.” Timothée tipped back the rest of his water and set the glass back down on the counter. “Nice diss at Brittany, by the way. Went way,” here, he accompanied the observation with a wooshing motion of his hand, “way over her head.”

“That’s me too,” said Armie. “I aim to please.”

“I should go,” said Timothée. “I have to go to this club. And.”

“And?”

Perhaps it was the flippant way that Armie had admitted to him that he had depression that made Timothée even more eager not to join him there. Besides, while he _was_ unhappy, he was perfectly aware of the causes of his unhappiness. He was dead on his feet; he wanted a place to sleep; and Alexi was doing coke. The way Timothée saw it, people went to therapy because they couldn’t figure out why they were unhappy and therefore became depressed. It was a vicious cycle.

“And nothing, none of your business. I’m off the clock,” Timothée hopped off the island. He had to go. He had to get out of here. Now. " — I'll. I'll just see you tomorrow, okay, Armie? Get some sleep. Rachel wants an early start."

Armie didn't move to stop him. Timothée wasn't disappointed. He was relieved.


	17. Chapter 17

The rest of the night was sort of a blur. 

Timothée smoked two more cigarettes on Armie’s porch, vaguely wondering if anyone would notice the piss on his lawn the next morning. Then the taxi came; against his better judgment Timothée asked to be taken to Lure, where Alexi was indeed a bit coked up, but even Timothée had to admit he didn’t seem that bad and they had the sort of mindless fun that he didn’t know he needed, but appreciated nonetheless. 

They had sex when they got back to the apartment. Also the mindless, desperate kind, that involved Alexi saying _please please please_ in a voice that Timothée couldn’t puzzle out. Timothée had a feeling that he was talking to someone, somebody else, but he couldn’t bring himself to care really. 

He left home with Alexi still buried under the blankets and butt naked. Timothée went through his boyfriend’s pockets and emptied two baggies of white powder into the toilet. This was going to be a one-time thing. A relationship might have been about trust, but last night he’d trusted because Timothée had no choice. Today, he could verify. 

Then Timothée went to work.

—

Timothée ran into Armie helping himself to some coffee and a croissant. He was dressed in a button down and the sort of cutoff denim shorts that Dads of a certain age wore. And it really shouldn’t work but it did because Armie’s legs were toned and he probably jogged often.

“Morning.”

“Morning.” 

As Timothée fixed his own coffee, he could feel Armie’s eyes concentrated on the back of his neck. It was like having an itch of a mosquito bite, except he couldn’t very well scratch at it. 

“What?” 

“I didn’t hear you come pick up your car this morning,” Armie said. “It was still there when I left.” 

“Yes, genius, and I’m late,” said Timothée, who was starting to regret his morning coffee. Which made Armie basically repellent because coffee was one thing that he never thought he’d regret in life. “I must have gotten there after you left.” Not that he was planning to really knock on Armie’s door and suggest that they have breakfast or something else that would jeopardize their working relationship. They were having breakfast now, technically. Timothée nabbed a jam-loaded doughnut and bit into it. 

“Well, okay.” Armie shrugged, “...Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine.” 

“My two favorite boys!” Rachel’s voice rang out, and he felt a tightening in his throat. “Why are we standing around, hm? You can have the breakfast in the control room, Tim, I need you. And you,” she looks Armie up and down. “The hell is up with those jeans? Are you trying to pull off some sort of washed out dad look? Because it’s working. Nothing to suck up a girl’s vagina than a washed out dad. All you’re missing is the beer gut.”

“It’s not like I got much sleep,” said Armie. He patted his stomach, if a bit self-consciously. 

“That’s crap,” said Rachel. “Anyway, I don’t care. Get to wardrobe. Now. Go go go. I need sexy, camera ready Armie like ten minutes ago.” 

“I am a dad,” Armie said. “Not that I’ll admit to be washed out but I’ve been better.” 

“Dude,” Timothée said. “Stop. Don’t argue, go to wardrobe. You won’t win.”

“Thanks for that vote of confidence,” said Rachel, twisting her mouth a little. 

She pulled him away after that and practically manhandled him into the control room, where Luca was staring at footage from last night, namely the shitshow that was Brittany. 

“This girl is something else,” Luca said. “It would be interesting to have her in the final two, sure. But she needs a redemption story too. Or else it will not be a fairy tale, no? Good morning, Timmy.” 

“Well,” Rachel elbowed Timothée gently, probably mindful that he was “It’s all _this_ guy. I had practically nothing to do with it.”

Timothée chewed some more of his jam doughnut. “It’s not a big deal,” he said with his mouth full. 

“So modest,” said Luca. “You can take a page from him,” that was to Rachel which just made a sound in her throat. Another gag. 

“Oh no,” Rachel rolled her eyes. “The patriarchy patting each other on the back congratulating each other on maintaining the status quo. Color me _so_ surprised.” 

Timothée felt like throwing the jam doughnut at her. But in the end, gnawing hunger won out and he gulped the last of the doughnut and chugged his coffee. “No,” he said. “You do not get to do that. We,” he drew a circle to encompass Luca and himself. “Are like, so far from the male patriarchy. We’re practically in the slums.” 

“You still have a penis.”

“That is fucking weak shit,” Timothée said. “And anyway, after yesterday I don’t know how you can call yourself a feminist.” 

“I _am_ a feminist,” Rachel reached to thwack Timothée a little unkindly on the back of the head, which he only just narrowly avoided. “I showed last night that strong women aren’t afraid to get their claws out. Sure, unlikeability is a factor, but that’s a risk that we have to take as women. We have to stand our ground.” 

Timothée stewed over the dregs of his coffee, “We also showed last night that if you want a man’s attention you just have to cry.” 

“Yes, and we can deconstruct that,” Rachel shrugged. “You can’t just cry and get what you want. Man up, grow a pair. Start getting what _you_ want. ” 

“So your advice to young girls watching is to fuck emotions, bitchiness gets you ahead. That’s dangerously close to incel discourse. Is that a feedback loop we really want to get into given today’s political climate?” Timothée said, “And Jacinda seems nice. She doesn’t deserve a storyline like that.” 

“Did you know she lied? That’s a no no in any political climate surely.” Rachel said. “I cast her to be boring and Jewish and then _bam_. Well, I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. We can run with that in Episode 4 and maybe she’ll get sent home. Armie doesn’t need more crap in his life.” 

Now it was Timothée’s turn to snort incredulously through his nose. “You cannot be serious. That’s victim blaming! There’s different degrees of lying. There’s.” 

“As fascinating as this is,” Luca cut in. “What are we doing for dates this week? I want ideas.”

“I think we should have a Everlasting Pageant,” said Rachel. “We have B-list actors on speed dial, don’t you? Or worse case scenario we can have you and Chet call up some of the girls you snort coke with. Do a stripper date. It trains your core strength, might as well become the next hot yoga.” 

“Who the fuck even _are_ you?” 

“I’m trying to make a television show, _Monsieur_ Pee Cee Police. “ Rachel looked him up and down, “Are you okay? Forgot to jerk it this morning so that the crap is spilling out of your mouth?” 

“Look, why don’t we go ask Armie who’s on his speed-dial? We’ll have him host and have whoever the guest host is to shoot the shit. It’ll look natural. And the girls will have a chance to hang with Armie’s friends. See if they fit.” 

Rachel seemed to think about it, “Elizabeth hosts television.” 

“My thoughts exactly,” said Timothée. 

“I like it,” said Luca. “It also says something about blended families and co-parenting in the modern age. I’ll call Legal. You guys get to work. Oh, and just because I know you two like this kind of thing.” He had a funny little smile on, “...If someone’s talent happens to be stripping, someone gets a bonus. Good television, yes?”

—

Timothée went and found Armie having his hair blow dried by Madison in wardrobe.

“Oh good, I thought you’d be sucking his dick.” 

She colored, “I worked in hair and makeup before I became a producer! This is something I know how to do.” 

Timothée stared her down until she looked away again, “You really don’t want me to say what I really, really want to say right now, Madison. Out. I need to talk to Armie.” 

“I want to watch you produce,” said Madison. “You and Rachel lock me out of everything.” 

“That’s because you fuck everything up,” no, that was a bit unfair, but Madison’s work was thus far uninspiring. “...I need to talk to him about something and then you can watch. Okay? Give us five minutes. Go help Rachel with prepping the girls. We’ve got a lot of work to do today.” 

Madison gave him another baleful look but left anyway, "I'll be back in five minutes." She said meekly. 

Armie sat still in the chair, “She’s _twenty,_ Tim, for fuck's sake. You don’t have to talk to her like that.” 

“Please don’t white knight me,” said Timothée. “She’ll be a good producer, not least of which because she puts everything into her mouth.” _Kind of like you_ but that seemed unnecessarily cruel. 

“Besides, I haven’t told anyone about our deal,” Timothée sat down in the vacant seat next to Armie’s. “I don’t want to, either. I just want to produce until it’s the only direction that we can go in. Rachel has some funny ideas about television, and I _am_ trying to help you.” 

“I bet you say that to all the girls,” Armie said. 

“It’s the truth. Whether or not they want my help is something else,” Timothée crossed his legs. “But I’m always helpful. Look, yesterday, I saved you from the speedo. That was my gesture of goodwill. I might screw over the girls, but I’m doing it for you.” 

“Okay, okay, you can stop it now, or it's going to get fucking creepy.” Armie held up a hand, “What the hell do you want?” 

Timothée tossed his cell phone into Armie's lap, "Call Liz. I've got a plan."


	18. Chapter 18

Armie stared at the phone in his lap as if it was some sort of bomb, “To do what? Say hi, what’s up?”

Timothée sighed, “It’s for a group date. We’re doing an _Everlasting_ pageant Miss America type of thing. You need a co-host, and I don’t want it to be one of the girls because then we’d be accused of playing favorites. It’s either Liz or some stripper that Luca knows. Or Johnny Depp. Don’t you know Johnny Depp?” 

“Johnny is probably doing hard drugs with his morning cereal right now or trying to sneak an endangered gerbil past customs, otherwise unreachable.” Armie laughed not very nicely, “And he prove-ably kind of beat his wife.” 

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that,” Timothée said and caught Armie’s disapprovingly look, “What? If anything that’s good for you, how long’s it been? Like a year? You do this, _and_ get back with your ex-wife? Nobody’s going to remember anything about your diliance with your pool boy. You’ll probably make the cover of _Good Housekeeping_.” 

Armie weighed the phone in his hands, “Is that why you lived in your car for a week? You didn’t even have a friend you could crash with?” 

“Glen offered,” said Timothée. “But I’d rather cut my balls off.” 

“My point stands,” Armie shrugged. “Your only friend is _Glen_.” 

The door to wardrobe opened again, and Madison stood in the entryway, “Are you guys done? Rachel says she doesn’t need my help. So that means I can watch.” 

“You make it sound like we’re about to have sex or something,” said Timothée. “This is so disappointing next to that. — Fine. you can come in. Close the door.” 

“Actually, no. It isn’t,” said Armie. “Tim, I didn’t know you _felt_ that way.” 

“Would you fuck off and make the call?” 

Armie rolled his eyes lightly at Madison, as if to invite her into their little conspiracy, and put the phone to his ear. He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair as he waited. Timothée couldn’t tell if the nervousness was from the coffee, the meds, or something else. As his call clicked, Armie sat up a little straighter, “Hello? It’s — sweetheart, hey. Harper, it’s Daddy.” Armie’s voice had changed somehow, like some sort of kid-friendly Lycra. “What are you doing right now? — Daddy’s not drinking jeese, but he’s thinking he might like some. Oh? I’m drinking coffee. It’s grownup jeese.” 

Timothée coughed noisily. When Armie turned to look at him, Timothée widened his eyes. 

“Harper, Daddy needs to talk to Mommy, okay? Can you give her the phone? I miss you too, what? ...Oh. That. Yes, Daddy still kind of has a virus. But I’m working very hard. I miss you miss you too. Bye, sweetie.” 

And then there was a pause. Armie said, “Good morning, it’s the virus.” 

There was something almost disembodying about Armie speaking on the phone to real people, “Yeah, I know. She sounds good. Listen, I need a favor. You can say no, but they’re making me ask, so I have to ask.” 

Timothée chewed the inside of his cheek. Cigarettes were an afternoon vice for him, but maybe today would be an exception. He and Alexi could battle their demons together. He took one out from his pack and rolled it thoughtfully between his fingers.

“Are you going to smoke that in here?” Madison was at his elbow, “That’s not allowed. You’re going to set something on fire.” 

“Well, gee. Then we’d really have something for an episode. Imagine Armie in a fireman’s helmet. Health and safety would be a drag though.” 

“— You’re a lifesaver, Liz. Really. Thank you so much, I owe you. Yeah, yeah. He’s right here.” Armie was gesturing at him, “She wants to speak to you, Tim.”

“Yeah,” Timothée held out his hand for the phone. To Madison he said, “Finish up his hair. I’ll be a minute.”

—

He let himself out of wardrobe and before he thought too much, Timothée lit and cigarette and put the phone to his ear, “Morning, Liz.”

“Morning,” Liz said. “What the hell are you guys doing? What happened to our deal?” 

“Armie was right, you know. You can say no.”

“No.” She said.

“But hear me out, okay.” Timothée was calmer already, what with the nicotine filling his lungs. “You’ve been out of work for how long? Since the divorce, right? Three months or something?” 

“You’re making me sound destitute,” Elizabeth said, a healthy amount of bile in her voice, “I have toddlers at home. And it’s not like I need anything. Armie’s giving me alimony and I have my own money. We’ve always had separate finances.” 

“I’m not trying to insult you,” said Timothée. “Really, honest, I’m not. You’re a career woman who’s made a really remarkable choice, you know. You chose to stop everything and look after your kids.” 

“Yes, because I’m _sane_ ,” he could see her rolling her eyes. “Cozying up to me isn’t going to get you what you want. I told you already, Tim, I know all the tricks in the book. I know that you’re playing a game and at the end no one wins.” 

“Okay, okay.” Timothée sucked so hard on his cigarette he had to cough into his sleeve. “I don’t know where you’re getting this. But we’re not _evil_ , okay. We just want to make a show. Something that matters to people. Some of Armie’s girls are absolute trainwrecks, okay. Think about how good you’re going to look next to all that. You’re a single mom who respects herself, loves her kids, and can still kind of sort of be civil to her cheating ex. You’re like paragon of virtue. You shouldn’t exist on reality TV. But you do. And that’s amazing.”

“You don’t know me, Tim.” Liz said, “That is a hell of a lot of assumptions when we don’t know each other.” 

“I think the best of people,” said Timothée. “Otherwise I’d be a ball of deep, black, depression unable to function in my everyday. I’m just saying, Liz. Look, I’m not supposed to tell you this, right. But the network is looking at a few late night shows and things. There’s an old fogie due to retire. Depending on how you come off on the date, you could be a real contender. You’d be set for _life_.” 

There was a silence. Timothée couldn’t tell if it was a good one. Then Liz laughed and Timothée nearly swallowed his cigarette. “That’s un-fucking-believable. So you want me to get into bed with your network?” 

“You’re a talent,” Timothée said, stubbing out the end of his cigarette violently with his toe. “I’m the pickiest about people, but I can see that. My boss has a direct in with the network head. And we can maybe work it out so that you take over only when Harper’s in preschool. There’s a lot of things we can do for you, Liz. The network puts out for the right people.” 

“Don’t sluts get cut?” Liz said. 

“I. I’m sorry?”

“My ex-husband,” she said very slowly, as if Timothée was stupid. “Is on a stupid dating show. It’s something you guys say, isn’t it? Sluts get cut?” 

Timothée ran a hand through his hair, “Do you have friends on this show? I mean, it’s something we say in private. We don’t _broadcast_ , obviously. Otherwise it’s slut-shaming.” 

“Let me get this straight,” Liz was thinking. “I come on your show for a date. And you’d give me a talk show deal?” 

“Not just any talk show deal,” TImothée reminded her. “A proven franchise with a fanbase thirsting for something fresh. I’ll talk to my boss.” 

“Tell you what, you get someone to send me a contract. And I’ll do it. I don’t trust you, Tim. But I’ll trust dry ink on paper.” She hung up. 

Timothée stared at the phone. He was still staring at the screened with the _Call Ended_ flashing in his face, when Armie came out of the trailer with Madison close behind. 

“Everything okay?” Armie said. “You look like someone punched you in the face.”

“Liz hung up on me,” Timothée said. He didn’t even have to think about that one. He was too shocked to lie. “No one hangs up on me.” 

“Yeah, and no one divorces me,” Armie shrugged. “Looks like we’re in the same boat. I’m going to get some more coffee.”


	19. Chapter 19

Luca was in the control room talking to one of the A. D.s. Timothée slumped down in his usual seat and waited until the A. D. had scurried out again. 

“What’s wrong, Timmy?” Luca turned to look at him, “You look like a drowned rat.” 

“Thanks,” Timothée sighed. “I got you Liz. But I need your help. I might have um, promised her she could have a television show. Whatshisface is retiring, isn’t he?” 

“Yes, I think so.” Luca scratched behind his ear. “You do know that you can’t go crazy and do something like that, right? If I back you up, Rachel’s going to accuse us of being part of the patriarchy. I don’t want that. Which is not to say it wasn’t funny.” 

“If you think about it, Luca, actually. What I did was anti-patriarchal.”

Luca swiveled his chair all the way around, “I’m listening.” 

“Single mothers don’t get jobs.” Timothée said, “Least of all, high vis jobs on late-night television. They don’t screen well, do they? People don’t trust them. I mean just look at _The Exorcist_. Work in television? Your child going to be possessed! Think of how trendy we’ll be.” 

“Timothée,” said Luca, using his full name the way that he never did. “Are you okay?” 

Timothée liked Luca. Luca was like a Dad, except a dad who was into way inappropriate shit so you didn’t feel bad actually talking to him about life. Because life was full of shit. “Please, can everyone just stop asking me if I’m all right?” 

“Who else asked?” Luca said curiously, “Not Rachel.” 

“Armie, Armie asked me if I was okay.” 

“Armie is an actor. Maybe not a great one, but he knows when someone’s acting.” 

“So you agree with him?” Timothée frowned. “Cause you know. I’m fine. I do my job. And you never get on Rachel’s case when she does crazy shit.” 

Luca stood up. On one of the many screens behind him, Rachel was waving her hands in front of Chantal, one of the black girls who had **WIDOW** scrawled next to her name on the whiteboard. “Forget about Rachel for a minute. Don’t look at the screens, look at me.” 

“We have a shrink for this,” said Timothée. “What are we doing?” 

Luca said, “We have a shrink so we can access patient records without Legal getting all in our business. God forbid we actually put the show’s shrink to work.”

“Point.” 

“So,” Luca dropped down into the chair next to him. “Are you okay? If you’re not up to producing Armie, then that’s okay. I understand. Maybe what he did was subconsciously offensive to you and you don’t know how to react.”

“What?” Timothée blinked. 

“You don’t have to act with me, Tim. It’s all judgment, isn’t it?” 

Timothée reached for a nearby coffee cup and found dregs. “I’m sorry, Luca. I don’t follow. Not enough coffee. Not to mention I’m hungover.” And he was, he’d just remembered it now, the weighted pain was crushing the back of his head. 

Luca took one of the walkies, “Hey? Someone? Coffee and aspirin to the control room, please.” 

“I do pornography,” said Luca. “I know it’s a dirty word around _actual_ television so I’m not allowed to say it. When I’m out with Chet, we have a ban on the word. He says it turns off the girls. Anyone who drinks with us ends up on a casting couch. Which is fastidiously untrue. I prefer to be sober when I do that, so I don’t accidentally make a mistake.”

“Not like Chet?” Someone came in to hand Luca coffee and aspirin. Luca passed both of those things on to Timothée once they were alone again. 

“Chet might be more familiar with those mistakes than I am, yes,” Luca shrugged. “What was I saying?” 

“The internet is for porn?” 

“Yes it is,” Luca said. “But you know what porn is for? It’s for _honesty_.”

Timothée laughed, “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” 

“It’s not though,” Luca wasn’t laughing. “Porn is for people who don’t know how to be intimate anymore. Why do you think cuckholding is hot? Or exhibitionism? It’s because we can judge those people going at it on our screens and think, that _we’d never do that._ But we still want it, but to waylay our own shame we judge other people.” 

“Huh,” Timothée chewed aspirin and swallowed coffee. It was bitter, but the literal bad taste in his mouth more or less made him feel better, “Are you suggesting that I’m not being honest with Armie? Because I am. I think he’s kind of a piece of shit.” 

It felt good to say that, because it was true. 

“Yes, you do,” Luca said. “I’m not disputing that, Timmy. But why do you think he’s a piece of shit?” 

“Where do I even start?” 

“You start from a very simple place.” Luca fixed him with a gaze so even it was nearly eerie. “You think he’s going to get away with it. You think him rehabbing his image is total bullshit. Which that might be, too.” 

“...You’re wrong, I’ve just.” Timothée sighed. “Promise not to tell Rachel, but I promised Armie he could propose to Liz in his finale. Okay? If I’m a bit antsy it’s because of that. And if you get Chet to give her some paper, I’ll owe you my left testicle.”

“You need your testicle.” Luca said, “But I appreciate your commitment. Chet and I are going to Catalina on his yacht this weekend, I’ll talk to him about it. If you really want me to.” 

“I really want you to. For the sake of the best fucking ending you’ll ever see,” Timothée patted his heart. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” 

“All right then,” Luca shrugged. “Consider it done.” 

Timothée would have hugged him, except his phone was ringing again. This time, it was the call he was dreading. 

“I have to take this.” And he needed to flee the control room, but Luca didn’t need to know that.

—

Timothée stared at the screen for a very long time before sucking in a deep breath and accepting the call.

“What the fuck,” was Alexi’s greeting, which was on par for the course. “You went through my stuff.” 

“Alexi, you promised me it was going to be a one time thing,” Timothée said. “So I just wanted to hold you to your word. Besides, I can’t talk now, I have a thing. Not to mention I’m at work.” 

“It’s like you don’t trust me.” 

“You are on CIA status with me right now,” Timothée bit his lip. “I’m not even joking. Trust but verify.” 

“Timmy, that’s not fair. I was saving that. Honest. All of that, was not going to go up my nose. I was saving it for something special. Like my next show or something. Did you flush _all_ of it down? Christ.” 

“So it doesn’t matter,” Timothée bit the inside of his cheek. The pain was familiar and numbing and it didn’t seem to be enough. He bit down harder until he tasted blood. 

“You flushed _a hundred dollars_ down the toilet. I don’t even know anyone now. What the _fuck_.” 

The blood in Timothée’s mouth was thick and metallic. He licked it across his teeth, “I will give you a hundred dollars if you want when I get home. Okay?” He still had the crumpled fifty that Rachel had handed him last night. “Just. Let’s not turn this into a fight? I really really want to trust you.” 

“Whatever,” said Alexi. “I’m going now.”

“Alexi —” Before he could make his case, Timothée found himself speaking to dial tone. 

“...Trouble in paradise?” Armie said from somewhere behind him and Timothée nearly jumped out of his skin.

Timothée whirled on him, “How long have you been standing there?” 

Armie smirked at him over the edge of his paper coffee cup, “Long enough.” 

“Now, who’s the creep?” Timothée tucked his phone away again. Out of sight, out of mind. He was not going to think about it. 

Armie seemed to take this in stride. He fell into step beside Timothée and chewed the edge of his cup, “People don’t think about this,” he said. “But us tall people can be invisible too. Sometimes even more so because people don’t think about it.” 

“God, is everyone a philosopher today?” Timothée had to swallow blood. “And I’m tall.” 

As if to prove a point, Armie looked down at him from the tip of his nose. They looked at each other in naked discomfort- _cum_ dislike for a long moment and then Armie broke the silence again. “So.” 

“So what?”

“What did Liz say?” Armie nudged him, “I’m holding you to your word. You can’t say you were too drunk.”

“I remember,” Timothée sighed. “I made the promise before I got way drunk.” 

“Was it the vodka?” Armie asked. From Timothée’s unamused expression, he likely made his own conclusions. “I love my vodka. Anyway.” 

“ _Anyway_ ,” Timothée fixed Armie with a long look, “I’m working on it. Liz wants her own late night show. Your ex is fucking scary. Maybe you have a type.” 

“Ha,” said Armie.


	20. Chapter 20

“...I can’t believe your boyfriend has a coke addiction,” said Armie after a moment or two, and Timothée felt himself tense up.

“Alexi does not,” Timothée was careful not to meet the man’s probing gaze. 

“Heroin, then?” Timothée opened his mouth to protest but Armie held up a hand to stop him. “— Seriously, anyone in the business knows that there’s only one reason anyone likes round numbers that much, because they’re high out of their fucking minds, Tim. And why you have to go all CIA on his ass.” 

“Like you’re in any position to judge,” said Timothée. 

“I’m not judging you,” Armie shrugged. 

“Are you trying to admit to me that you have a drug problem? Because honestly, I already have my hands full.” Timothée pivoted so that he and Armie were face to face; he felt like baring his teeth. “...Look, we’re probably not doing a group date today, so have a think about who you’d like to hang out with. I’ll come find you later.”

—

“You promised Liz a _television show_ ,” Rachel stared at Timothée like he’d suddenly sprouted some pus-filled, leaking tumor. “To be on a group date for which we’re probably going to show fifteen minutes, twenty. Tops.” She held out both of her hands, palms flat and turned upwards like a pair of scales. “...Sorry, Tim. I don’t see it. Maybe I should go find myself a cheating boyfriend and talk my way into a showrunning job. Big whoop. Are you actually nuts? Since when do we give people what they want around here?” 

“I’d thought you’d be happy,” Timothée shrugged. “She used her circumstances to get ahead like a strong levelheaded woman. No man, no tears involved: just cold, steely practicality. You should be singing her praises.” 

“And I would be,” Rachel said. “Except in order to get what she wants, you let her get to you. This better not be you getting soft, Tim.” 

“I’m skeletal,” Timothée rolled his shoulders for effect. “Come on, she still might not get her show so we have to settle for a fucking stripper. Luca said he’d try to work it out with Chet.” 

Rachel breathed noisily through her nose, a little bit like she was annoyed, but Timothée couldn’t quite tell. 

“Okay, so now what?” She crossed her arms. 

“One on one? Get things sizzling? Look, we had cat fights last night. I think we should turn things around. We’ll get the hot tub going and we can get some things for a mixed grill.” 

“Why a mixed grill?” 

“Elizabeth says Armie’s good at a mixed grill. I don’t know.” Timothée shrugged, most of his attention was on Rachel’s face, watching her mouth twitch sideways. “...What are you planning? I know that look.” 

“You’re genius,” she said. “I love you again. Do you think you’ll be able to get Armie to pick Chantal?” 

“Who?” Timothée had to consult his phone. “Rachel, she’s vegetarian.” 

“Exactly, Imagine, Armie cooking up this feast right, she’ll be a princess about it and we can have whoever he actually wants crash the date. Romance! Drama! Besides, it’s nice and domestic, yeah? Couples fight about what they have to eat all the time. We’re always getting flack about things not being realistic enough.”

“In the real world, he’d probably ask her if she was vegetarian. They’d probably have to get some vegetarian pizza take out and she’d ream him for his fuck up even though he paid.” 

“Yeah, okay. And _then_ how are we going to make something people will watch, like for real?” 

Timothée’s mind was not on it; most of the working parts of his brain was preoccupied by the undoubtedly difficult conversation he would have to have the moment he got home. And anyway, what did that matter? He sleepwalked through most of this job anyway, “Okay, we can do that if you want.” 

Rachel said, “What, no argument from you?” 

“About what?” Timothée steeled himself. “My head’s in the game. I’m not babying anyone. Who the fuck has these ridiculous dietary reqs on television right?” He rubbed almost violently at his temples. “I need a favor though, Rachel.” 

“I’m listening.”

“I’ll produce Armie so that he’s ripe and ready, but I need to go home afterwards.”

“If you’re leaving me to have sex with Sergei? Forget it.” 

“I’m the paragon of professionalism, would never.” Timothée said, “It’s something else. Come on, Rach. You know I would never ask unless I need it.” He could have corrected her on Alexi’s name, but didn’t want to sound any less professional than he had already. 

She peered at him with those lizard dark eyes, “Okay. But you have to clear it with Luca.” 

“Done. Off to work my magic.” He waved his fingers at her and Rachel snorted.

“Bye, Tinkerbell.”

—

Timothée detoured to the control room to collect some white card and a sharpie, only to find Luca uncommonly fixated on something in one of the screens. 

“...Wait a minute,” Timothée’s eyes widened, “That’s the cam in the Suitor’s room.” 

“You mean it wasn’t obvious?” Luca said, “She’s got interesting technique.” 

“But that’s. Why didn’t you _tell_ me?” 

“I was just going to radio you,” Luca raised an eyebrow at him. “But here you are? Maybe you don’t have so much to worry about, Timmy.” 

“Ugh,” said Timothée. In the name of professionalism, he left the control room and didn’t slam the door.

—

There was still sounds coming from the Suitor’s room, a muffled girlish giggle, a sigh. 

And then a low, throaty moan that Timothée was going to pretend did not make his cock twitch at all. He was stressed; he was dealing with a lot; not to mention, his cock did not twitch, period. 

Timothée pushed his way into the room and closed the door behind him again. “Okay!” He clapped his hands loudly. “Sexy times over, put your cock back in your pants and you. Out.” 

Jacinda was scrambling for her blouse and her bra, her face bright red, “Tim, I was just.”

“ _Out_.” 

“Jesus, Tim. Calm down.” Armie said, which helped the situation by three shades of pink. Which was to say, not at all. 

Jacinda was still lingering in the doorway, gibbering something. Timothée more or less slammed the door in her face. Then into his walkie he barked, “Madison! I need you outside the Suitor’s room, now.”

“...Like, to come in, or?” There was vague static at the other end. 

“Madison, _listen_. Or else I will start calling you Bambi again. Outside means outside. Now means _now_.” After he cut off the communication again, Timothée weighed the walkie and thought about throwing the thing at Armie’s thick head — skull. At Armie’s thick skull. Timothée really meant skull. The stupid thing probably wouldn’t even dent. “...Is that what you said to Liz? Jesus, calm down?” 

Armie was still adjusting his jeans. He’d since changed from the Dad shorts he’d been wearing earlier to a pair of darker, stonewashed jeans that fit snugly around his hips. Madison, to her credit, must have used industrial-strength gel because his hair looked like it hadn’t moved an inch. 

“That’s not remotely the same thing,” Armie said. “Jacinda just said she wanted to apologize for what happened last night, that she unloaded on me. Okay?” 

“And so…” Timothée trailed off. “Your dick just happened to be out?” 

“She came onto me, honest.” 

“You do _not_ get to hashtag me too out of this,” Timothée sighed loudly. “Just. Don’t do it again. Okay?” 

“What, you jealous?” 

“No, but I don’t want to be explaining another rando blowjob to Liz.” Timothée stared at him until Armie looked away. “Do you?” 

“Can we move on?” Armie said. 

“We can. You’re going to go on a one-on-one with Chantal. You’re going to cook her a mixed grill. And then you’re going to pick someone else to have some alone time with, just someone not Blowjob Queen.” Timothée slapped the white card down the end table by the bed. 

“Which one’s that?”

“Black girl,” Timothée shoved the screen in his face. “Her husband died in a car crash last year. He played football.” 

Armie uncapped the sharpie with his teeth and scribbled something on the card. He had surprisingly neat, blockish writing:

_Chantal: Let’s mix things up! - Armie_

“That’ll work,” Timothée pocketed the card. “Who’s your other pick?” 

“Who’s going to make you happy?” 

Timothée swallowed, “What do you mean?” 

“Oh, come on. Let me back in your good books. I’m sorry I said what’s his name had a coke habit.” 

“Alexi. And he really doesn’t.” 

Armie swung his legs around the side of the bed. Timothée had to take a step back when he realized that their knees were almost touching. 

“I know. So. I owe you a goodwill gesture. Pick.” Armie smiled at him, “It’s all right.” 

“I’ll leave it up to Rachel,” said Timothée, suddenly in a hurry to leave. “She’ll be producing your date.” 

“But I want you to pick,” said Armie. “Timothée. I’ve been holding out on you, you know. _Je parle français aussi._ ” 

Somehow, Timothée was glad that Armie’s pronunciation was terrible, “... _Aussi_ my ass. Pick the European then. I think we cast a couple. It'd be stupid if we didn't. I’ll get someone to come get you when we’re ready. In the meantime, no more blowjobs.” 

"No more blowjobs," Armie saluted him with a vaguely unsettling grin. "You got it, boss."


	21. Chapter 21

Timothée wondered about Rachel as he drove home. He knew she was sleeping in one of the prop trucks, and had a funny sort of thing you couldn’t call a fling with one of the camera guys a few seasons ago, one of those _stressors_ that probably led up to her accident. But now she seemed to be fine. On the top of her game, as if nothing had ever happened. It’d made his little coke bump with Alexi seem almost paltry. This whole thing was incredibly stupid and he really shouldn’t be taking a personal day. 

Still. 

Before he could stick his keys in the door, it swung open to reveal a freshly showered, freshly shaved Alexi. Not that his boyfriend often needed a shave. But Timothée could spy a little nick just under Alex’s chin. 

“Oh,” said Timothée, barely containing the surprise in of his voice. “Hi.” 

“Hi, Timmy.” Alexi cuffed him by the neck and pulled him in for a kiss. “I cleaned the place.” 

And indeed, the place was clean. All the dishes were even done. The bed was tucked neatly away and as far as Timothée could tell through his socked feet, the carpet was still a little warm, as if Alexi had not so long ago, vacuumed. “I realize that you are right. It was a one-time thing, I shouldn’t have gotten mad.” Alexi’s voice was warm and inviting, leaving expectant prickles on Timothée’s skin. “Forgive me?” 

“I don’t know,” said Timothée, who otherwise wanted to punch his boyfriend for making him take a personal day for no reason at all. “Convince me? You could start by speaking some French.” 

Alexi had done a stint with the _Ballet Russe_ in Paris, although he wasn’t shy about hating his time there. _His_ pronunciation was nearly perfect. (Unlike someone else’s), “ _Français français je t’aime_? My clothes are about to fall off.” 

And they did, not long afterwards.

—

Like one of Pavlov’s dogs, Timothée reached for his phone once it’d buzzed three, no, four times.

“You’re not allowed,” Alexi’s fingers wrapped tightly against his wrist. “Stop. In the name of...oh, I don’t know. More sex.” His cadence dropped to something ever promising. 

“We both have refractory periods,” Timothée said reasonably. “And ow.” 

Alexi peered at him for a long moment and then nuzzled his naked thigh, “You have a terrible job.” 

Timothée, in favor of staring at Alexi’s gorgeous face, turned instead to the ceiling. “I like my job.” And mostly, he meant it. 

His phone buzzed again, as if to remind him how much he liked his job right on cue. 

“And I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to distract me, Alexi. From you doing coke. I’ve been through this once before. I don’t know if I can do this again, with you.” Timothée touched the side of Alexi’s face. “Let’s not do this.” 

Alexi blinked, “I don’t want to do anything. You’re the one who won’t shut up. You and your fucking phone.”

—

Timothée sat naked on the toilet cover of his bathroom. He reminded himself how much he liked his job before he picked up.

“Hey, it’s Tim.” 

“Hey, you _would not believe_ ,” said Rachel’s voice. She rather sounded like she was on crack. “Whatever you did, it was fucking perfection. Has Luca called you already?” 

Quickly, Timothée checked his phone for any missed calls from Luca. He came up with nothing. 

“Nope.”

“But, dude. It’s fan _tas_ tic. I mean, sure, Jacqueline left the show, but whatever.” Rachel added, before Timothée could ask, “before you ask, yes, it’s the French-Swiss girl. The one that has a degree in dramaturgy. Nice touch.”

“I was going to ask what the fuck dramaturgy was,” said Timothée, “But yeah, I guess that too. She left the show? Like actually left?” 

“Like yelled at Madison to get her a ticket to Lausanne left,” Rachel laughed. “But don’t worry, we still have one more European left. We’ll try to make that one last. I mean, if anyone can figure out her name. I think she’s like, Norwegian or something. She sounds like something straight out of _Star Wars_.” And then, as if she’d just remembered, “...Are you okay? With your personal day?” 

Timothée looked down at his flaccid dick, hanging dangerously close to the edge of the toilet. His personal day and thus far had consisted of him and Alexi exchanging heated fallatio in their sparkling clean kitchen escalating to now, when it kind of hurt Timothée to seat down.

He was trying not to think about that.

“I shouldn’t have taken a personal day.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I,” Timothée rubbed a hand over over his mouth. “I don’t mean anything. I mean I shouldn’t have taken a personal day. Maybe nothing’s wrong.” 

Rachel descended into a thoughtful silence on the other side of the phone. “...Do you want to come back to work, Tim?” 

Timothée breathed out sharply through his nose. “Do you need me?” 

“Armie is sulking in his room,” Rachel said. “His mixed grill’s still on the barbeque. Chantal’s still crying. What do you think?” 

“I’ll come back to work,” Timothée stood up, mindful of his dick. “Give me like a minute to get dressed.”

—

Alexi said, as Timothée came out of the bathroom and hunted around for some socks, “You’re going back to work?”

“I trust you,” said Timothée. “Should I not go back to work?

“You’re always at work,” Alexi took his hand and kissed his knuckles. “Stay. I can buy more McDonald’s and spend all day at the gym tomorrow. _Reste, s'il te plait_.”

“Dude, you must think I’m a cheap date, that Micky D’s gets me to stay now,” Timothée laughed. “Look, I’ll just go to work for a little bit and be right back. Something happened, okay? Order the McDonald’s, Alexi. I’ll be back before you know it.” 

Alexi walked him to the door, handed him a sock from seemingly out of nowhere and they exchanged spit with Timothée’s hand wrapped around the doorknob. 

“Promise?” 

Timothée sighed against his mouth, “I promise, promise, promise.”


	22. Chapter 22

Back on set, the first person that Timothée ran into was Luca. Luca was chewing on a toothpick and sipping coffee, “Well. I did think it was going well. I mean, it’s okay, I suppose. We can make something out of this, but I was hoping to waylay the shitshow until Week 3 or something. If anything, I guess we can cut this date entirely but that means the other two dates have to be _on point_.” 

“What even _happened_?” Timothée helped himself to Luca’s coffee. He winced, “...What’s in this?” 

“It’s just coffee. The strong kind. I don’t like sugar. I don’t like sugarcoating anything.” Luca shrugged, “You don’t like it?” 

“No shit, I feel shaky already.” Timothée passed him back the cup; it was close to eight in the evening and he really shouldn’t have even attempted Luca-coffee at this point in the day. “But this is your fault. You put her in charge.” 

“I didn’t exactly,” Luca said. “She’s only in charge because you had a thing.” 

“I don’t have a thing anymore,” Timothée rolled his shoulders, as if in a bid to drop everything he’d been carrying. “I’m back in the game. I’m gonna go talk to Armie, okay? I’ll fix it.” 

Passing by, one of the A. D.’s said, “Hey, so should we put the mixed grill on a hot plate or…?” 

The A. D. wasn’t Glen. Timothée had to squint to make sure, “It still warm?” 

“What?”

How did _anyone_ work here? What was the means by which some ubiquitous, invisible they selected these particular individuals? If Timothée ever left showbiz, he was beginning to think he had more than a blinking chance of sliding into a storied career in HR.“The mixed grill, you dumbass.” 

“...Kind of?” The guy had to think. 

“Put it on a plate and give it to me,” Timothée said. 

“Okay, dude, one sec.” 

Luca and Timothée both watched him hurry off. Luca clapped Timothée on the back, “Anyway, glad you’re back, Timmy. You didn’t seem to be yourself this morning.”

—

Whoever had done the shopping for the ingredients of Armie’s mixed grill had done a great job. The cuts looked thick and healthy and upon turning the skewers around, Timothée discovered that there was a nice char on all sides. Armie’s knowledge of a mixed grill seemed undeniably sexy next to the fact that Alexi had — and was still — plying Timothée with McDonald’s.

But that wasn’t anything. And he did not just think Armie Hammer was sexy. 

Timothée found Glen parked outside the Suitor’s room. For a moment, he almost thought. No. 

“I don’t think he’s coming out, man,” Glen said. “Rachel parked me out here to do some sort of reaction shot thing. Madison had to go the bathroom twice already.” He shrugged, and then he lowered his voice, “But _Jesus_ , that was so _brutal_. My balls still hurt.” 

Timothée looked at him up and down, “Never, ever talk to me about your balls again.” 

“Still, ow.” 

Timothée rolled his eyes and then knocked on the door, “Armie?” 

“Go away.” 

“It’s just me, Tim.” He tried the knob and found it unlocked. “Coming in, okay?” 

“Tell Glen to stay outside.” 

Timothée looked at Glen over his shoulder, but mostly at Glen’s camera, “You heard the big man. Stay outside.”

Since Armie offered no other instruction or reprieve, Timothée stepped inside of the Suitor’s room and found it dark. Still, there was still a bit of pinkish sunlight on account of the late lazy sunset, and Timothée could make out Armie lying on the bed. He was lying on his stomach, but at least this time, he was wearing a shirt. Maybe there was a subconscious pattern to this, maybe Armie only wore a shirt when he was feeling vulnerable or violated. 

Timothée put the mixed grill on the end-table. When Armie didn’t move, he found that he didn’t have much to say, either. 

He went into Armie’s bathroom, fetched a towel and by leaving the light on in there found the camera mounted on the wall. The red light was blinking, which meant it was transmitting live feed. Using the waist-high dresser, Timothée leveraged himself up and threw the towel over the camera. Then he returned to Armie’s bedside and poked him in the shoulder.

“Come on, talk to me. It’s only week 1, you’re like, not allowed to be in crisis. Eat something.” 

Finally, Armie shifted to look at him, “That my mixed grill?” 

“Yeah. It’s pretty good.” To demonstrate, Timothée ate a piece off of one of the skewers. He was gratified to learn that he wasn’t wrong. “I mean, what do I know, I keep eating cold burritos about to go off and McDonald’s.” 

Armie’s gaze went from Timothée to the now-covered camera, “...Is that thing usually on?” 

“It’s supposed to be, no sound though. So we’re fine now.” 

Armie looked vaguely horrified. He flipped over and looked down pointedly at himself, “You mean there’s.” 

“Footage of your schlong from earlier,” Timothée supplied helpfully, also deciding to help himself to another kind of beef. He chewed, and then licked his fingers. “Yeah. But don’t worry. A shitload of this stuff goes in the archive and no one ever looks at it ever again.” 

“Give me that,” Armie held out his hand for the plate. “Is there _anything_ that is real on this show? I mean, do people actually think for themselves? Instead of.” He gave up and waved his hand. “Because the way the chick insulted me, I could have sworn Rachel put words in her mouth. I can smell a script a mile away.” 

“I’m honest with you now,” Timothée said. “That if something scripted got to you this much, you probably won’t survive two months. Rachel has good instincts; you listen to her, she’ll end up helping you. A explosive exit week 1 could help you if you’d put on your big boy pants and own up to it. You have a messy night one, week 1, and even week 2. That’s all _fine_. Part of the narrative process. I keep telling you.” 

Armie looked at him in mid-chew, appearing faintly ridiculous. He swallowed, went to the bathroom, gulped water (and probably Xanax), then reappeared in the doorway again, shadow harshly lit. 

“Now come on, we’re going to order you a vegetarian pizza and you’re going to bring it to Chantal in her room. Rachel’s probably swimming in crying footage and feeling suicidal.” 

“...And that’s it?” Armie said. 

“...What else do you want me to do? Hold your goddamn hand?” 

“You’re not going to ask me what happened with Jacqueline?” 

“I didn’t think you wanted me to,” that, and Timothée could look at the footage, or catch the drama on next week’s episode like everyone else. Besides, Armie’s drama was always going to be superseded now by Glen’s fucking balls, and that was probably not a good thing. 

Timothée blinked, and Armie was standing there in front of him, with barely a half an inch of space between them. “Armie —” 

“I’m not going to do anything creepy, promise.” Armie leaned forward and nested his forehead in the crook of Timothée’s shoulder. “Just this.” He breathed out noisily. “Just this.” 

Timothée was careful to stand very still.


	23. Chapter 23

“I smell mixed grill on you,” said Rachel, stabbing the bottom of her pot noodle container as they watched Armie and Chantal disgustingly share a pizza. A vegetarian pizza with zucchini, mushroom, sun-dried tomatoes, and pine nuts. Timothée had even felt skinnier when listing to Madison (who was only sometimes a vegetarian for _ethical_ reasons) order it over the phone. “Mixed-grill and naked regret.” After giving up fishing for saucy dregs, Rachel got up and tossed the paper cup in the trash. 

Maybe he and Rachel should have split a pizza. 

Armie’s forehead was a ghostly weight on Timothée’s shoulder. The more he thought about it the more his bones ached. 

“What regret?” 

“The regret you’re rationalizing out of your head,” she sat back down and tapped obtrusively at Timothée’s temple. “You’re thinking, but he _is_ a real person. So it might be okay. You’re starved for difference and wanting something fresh.” 

“He _is_ a real person,” said Timothée. “Maybe more real than the rest of us.”

Rachel laughed, “Come off it Tim, do you remember what happened to me?”

“Which?” He deadpanned. 

“Touché,” she said. “All I’m saying is, sleeping with a contestant, a _Suitor_ , no less. It’s not going to make you any less numb. It’s not going to make you any less than all the things you don’t want to be. So just keep your head down and produce the fuck out of the season. And then you might have the courage to do what I never could. Tim, I’m like, thirty-eight. You’d think being near jail and quasi the Duchess of fucking Sandwich would have convinced me. But nope.” 

Timothée wanted to remind her that thinking that someone was a real person was a long way from wanting to _sleep_ with them, but then again, this was Rachel he was speaking to. She’d also laid out a lot in that sentence, but he was too tired for almost all of it. Rachel also had a thing where she liked to list her problems but she wouldn't talk about them.

“You are? Would have pegged you for,” he squinted and counted to five; it seemed the polite thing to do, “Thirty-three. Tops.” 

Rachel smiled at him and patted her hair, “It’s not me you need to suck up, Wonder Boy.”

“I’m not sucking up. Honest. I’m sure your cunt is everlasting.” 

“You did not just,” Rachel rolled her eyes. “What the fuck, Tim.” She pressed a fist lightly into his shoulder. “I mean it though.” 

“It’s complicated,” Timothée found himself saying. “And not what you think.” 

“It almost always isn’t,” Rachel’s eyes were trained on the screen, as Armie handed Chantal a rose. They hugged, they kissed, they laughed. The pizza lay half-eaten and forgotten on the mattress. In fact, there was a tomato stain nearby. 

(Armie still had a tan line from his wedding ring. Timothée wasn’t sure why he’d just noticed. He’d have to speak to Madison about making it less obvious.) 

Rachel spoke into the walkie, “And that’s a cut! Someone change the sheets, please. It looks like she’s had her fucking period. — Tim?”

“Yeah?” 

“Answer your phone. You’ve been buzzing for the last ten minutes.”

—

Armie caught him as he was unlocking his car, “You going home?”

Timothée inhaled deeply, “No, I’m sleeping in my car.” He wasn’t really, but he’d thought about it as a possibility for more than it was probably normal. “Get some sleep, it’s late. It’s not sexy if you look sleep deprived on TV, Armie. Did you want something?” 

Armie stilled, “...Just to say thanks, I guess.” 

Timothée looked towards his feet to avoid the man’s gaze. Then he looked up again, “Anytime. Good night.”

—

Before bed, Timothée and Alexi ate cold McDonald’s and watched the latest season of _So You Think You Can Dance_ on Timothée’s laptop. Outside, police sirens wailed. It was an episode that Alexi had already seen before, but he’d wanted Timothée to look at one of the routines.

“I’m still mad at you,” Timothée said, training his eyes on the screen. Tunnel vision could get him through this. “Just to clear the air.” 

Alexi said, “Mad enough to break up with me?” 

“No,” Timothée said; he didn’t even need to think about it. He’d been around glitzy dates enough to know that relationships, _real ones_ , took work. Often times, work meant rehab and that was fine; it meant understanding addiction in a world that was shit as anything and that was fine too. If there was anything that Timothée was good at in life, it was understanding _people_ , knowing what they wanted and helping them reconcile with the fact that they couldn’t. No one was special. “But I’m still mad. I’m sorry I was late back. Something happened on one of the dates.” 

Alexi said, “Okay.” 

And didn’t say anything else.

—

The rest of the week felt like a slog. There was a group date at LACMA, where one of the girls passed out in the ladies’. Someone else, one of the blondes named Lauren, went on a one-on-one and was received a rose despte Armie looking half asleep throughout most of it.

Timothée didn’t really wake up until the start of the next week, when he woke up to headlines like: 

**_Voulez-vous Coucher avec Moi?_ PhDicks and Accusations of Elitism on Hit Dating Show _Everlasting_**

And 

**_Everlasting_ ’s Not-So-Dearly Departed Dr. Jacqueline St. Luc: “I was MISREPRESENTED!"**

On Twitter, #jacqueass was trending. #PhDicks was too. There was also #notallPhDs picking up steam. It all seemed very buzzy. 

“...What do you mean, you didn’t watch the episode? It was _great_ ,” said Rachel, thumbing through her phone. “Although the hashtag is eh, uninspiring. But the chick wrote a blog. It’s like three thousand words long and I don’t even really understand it. I went to Vassar. _Suck_ it.” 

“I know, you keep reminding me,” Timothée slumped down in the seat next to her. “...Did she really call Armie a dumbo on television?” 

“Well, English _isn’t_ her first language? And the censors didn’t bleep it either,” she shrugged. “I’m just hoping that this buzz persists through the week.” 

“For God’s sake _why_? Rach, I really think we overstepped the mark.” Timothée said, “It’s one thing to. Lots of people didn’t go to college. And what she did was outright rude. Besides, what kind of idiot discusses microsociology on a first date? _Boring_. You’ve insulted both the Suitor _and_ women in higher education. That’s terrible. It's like something Madison would do because she doesn't understand how media works.” 

“You're fucking kidding me, right? I didn’t insult the Suitor,” said Rachel, swiveling her chair around to face him. “Look, he’s privileged as fuck. We needed to give the audience something to root for. Now Armie has to prove to us that he’s more than a pretty face, more than his Disney charm. Sure he didn’t go to university, but he went to the school of life.” 

Timothée turned to Luca, “And you think this is okay?” 

“...I’m just staring at the twenty-one share we got last night,” said Luca, somewhere between turned on and reasonable. “Absolutely gonzo ratings. I think it’s fine. Besides, I got a call from Elizabeth Chambers's lawyers this morning. Who better to resuscitate Armie than his ex-wife?” 

“And, we really needed the word ‘dick’ to go away,” Rachel rolled one shoulder, as if she wanted rid of a crick in her neck. “PhDicks though, we can work with that.”


	24. Chapter 24

Armie was brushing his teeth. By the sounds of it, quite violently. The hard scrubbing filled the silence like pinpricks through the air.

“Did you want something, or are you just going to stand there and stare at me like a creep?” Armie spit into the sink and wiped his mouth. He wasn’t wearing a shirt. 

It never occurred to Timothée that someone like Armie Hammer never went to college. The cynical part of Timothée wanted to think, as the tabloids likely did, that he was a bit slow and preferred getting into trouble, having the funds to do it. But Armie was protected here by his seeming normality and his gender, and the clarity of his accent. Most of Jacqueline St. Luc’s tirade had to be subtitled last night and Timothée had already found several videos on Youtube that substituted those for...something else. Most of it unflattering. 

The internet was wonderful. 

But there was another part of him that thought something else, and Timothée was, for the moment, trying to summon some sort of empathy as per required by his job. He himself had gone to college (not quite _Vassar_ , but it wasn’t as if Bowdoin was anywhere to sneer at, even if most people were more impressed by the fact that he’d managed to survive four years in rural Maine without gouging out his his eyes due to boredom.) 

“Just to prep you for dates this week,” Timothée said. 

“And?” 

Armie had the faintest dab of toothpaste at the edge of his mouth. “And you’ve got.” Timothée pressed his thumb against the same spot on his own face. 

“Oh.” 

There was an uncomfortable silence. Timothée finally sighed, “What else are you waiting for?” 

“Nothing, just standing at attention to learn my dance for this week.” Armie brushed past him out of the bathroom, and Timothée flicked the lightswitch off for something to do. 

Armie was _sulking_. An entire weight seemed to lift off Timothée’s shoulders because he’d been prepared to deal with worse.

“I keep telling you, there’s no dance,” Timothée went a bit lax against the wall as Armie took a seat on the bed. “I just tell you what’s up.” _The sooner you get that through your thick skull, the sooner you_

No. 

“ _What’s up,_ ” Armie said, “is _you_ —” 

“Here we go,” Timothée crossed his arms. “Go for it. Let it all out, and then we can move on.” Armie was rather on an accelerated schedule, but the guy _was_ an actor, they made their business to know skeezy wearing the skins of other people. Vaguely, Timothée wondered if Armie ever did any crack with the whatsit twins he played in that one Fincher movie. Their own faces were invincible. Clean, except (until) when they weren’t. 

Armie opened his mouth and then closed it again. Then he did it again, and then twice more, until it became comical enough that Timothée wondered if the words that would come out his mouth would even make any sense. They once had a Suitor who descended who’d descended into a bubbling mess on live television after his final girl had rejected him. (Rachel’s doing). The guy was in rehab now and had done one of those spot ads for Tinder that you sometimes saw on YouTube. 

“ _Fuck_!” was what came out of Armie’s mouth in a rush of air. “Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck_.” 

Then nothing.

Timothée waited for a good two minutes, and after that, he straightened up. “...You done?” 

Armie inhaled deeply, “Yep.” 

“Really.”

“Yes.” 

“Okay,” Timothée said, “I’m going to move on now.” He was more than a little surprised that Armie didn’t insult him personally, but maybe Armie _did_ have some sense of where his bread was being buttered for the next almost-two months (one week gone) and wanted to (sort of) stay in Timothée’s good graces. “Three dates this week, two one-on-ones and an overnight group date.” 

Yes, he realized that he hadn’t exactly cleared “overnight” with Rachel but that was neither here nor there. It could all be managed, eventually. 

“It’s week two,” said Armie, as if he was some expert on their trash fire of a reality show. “Isn’t that a bit.” 

“It is,” Timothée agreed. “But Elizabeth is going to be there on the overnight group date. So I figured you’d want.”

It was kind of funny how neither of them wanted to drop the hammer and finish their sentences. What was at the end? Maybe it was better if they both knew and didn’t. 

“So she got her own television show?” Armie’s eyes widened like saucers. Very very blue saucers. 

“Probably? It’s being kicked around very seriously upstairs.” Timothée shrugged. “Something’s been signed, sealed, delivered. I don’t always know everything.”

“That’s one of the things that I really admire about her, you know,” said Armie, lying back with his hands cupped behind his head. “Liz is really. Whatever she wanted, she went and got. She even won over my mom in the end. ‘S why she bought us that house.” 

“I’m like that,” Timothée deadpanned before his brain could catch up and tell him not to. He liked to think it was mostly true. Whether Armie knew it or not, he’d the man wrapped around his finger and the only thing Timothée had to worry about was how much of a peek the prince was allowed at the goings on behind the curtain.

Armie fixed him with a long look, “Yes, I’ve noticed. I admire you too. Someone feeling insecure this morning?” 

“...The fuck are you talking about?” Timothée shrugged. The motion felt weightier than it did usually. 

“Normal people,” there was a smirk that played on Armie’s lips, as if he knew he’d struck a nerve. “Would call what you did, fishing for a compliment.” 

“I wasn’t fishing for fucking anything,” said Timothée. “I just want you know exactly where you are.” 

Armie got up. He went to one of the drawers and pulled out a collared polo. As he slipped it over his head, Timothée watched his torso. “Like I said, song and dance. I can be here for that.” 

“And I already told you that’s not true.” 

“I think it is,” said Armie. “And you know what else I think? I think you’ve made your whole little life camera ready, shitshow and all. You don’t know how to turn the thing off. It’s starting to bother you. _Timothée_.” 

“You do not get to shrink me, Hammer.” Timothée’s throat was suddenly feeling strangely narrow. It was not quite that he couldn’t breathe, but it took effort, pushing air from his lungs through his nose. “You know nothing about me.”

Armie didn’t bother to look at him, “My point exactly.”

—

Timothée went and found Rachel, who was taking a moment in her truck.

“Overnight date, Vegas. We still have the partnership agreement from that one hotel we gotta use up, right? We had the Suitor propose locally last season so we didn’t.” 

“Let me guess. You want to overnight the group date? Do you want to use up your weekend chaperoning a bunch of drunk horny chicks? Because I don’t. ‘S why we try to cut down on the traveling.” 

“Madison could,” Timothée started and then stopped. “Okay. Didn’t mean that. But look, I think the manor is putting everyone on edge. I haven’t been around the girls that much, but I know Armie’s itching to get out.” 

“There you go. Giving him what he wants again. Stop thinking with your dick. And what about Sergei?” 

Alexi started on a new show, which meant Timothée started not to see him again. Space was good for the both of them, although he didn’t feel like telling Rachel that. That would have been the equivalent of giving the firing squad more ammo. “Am not. Don’t you get tired of sleeping in a single bed in a fucking truck? If you don’t want to chaperone, then don’t. Produce the date with me, and then.” He waved his hands. 

“I’m not just going to, no more than you want to.” she waved her hands in return. They both knew what he meant. Then she obscenely milked her finger with her fist and Timothée smacked her soundly with a pillow. She didn’t even flinch. Maybe he should have hit her harder. It was probably that she was used to, and Timothée liked to think he knew her well enough within the confines of...something. This job was a lot of things. It was impossible just to pick one thing. 

Finally, Rachel shrugged, “Fine. Maybe if I win a million bucks or something, I guess I can quit this soul-sucking job. Let’s go to Vegas.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm tentatively back!

“I’m not going to _Vegas_ ,” Liz pronounced that word like she was either an Amish housewife or a rabbi. (Could women be rabbis? Timothée made a note to Google that later.) For now, he sucked on his joint and watched as the sun settled over the edge of the skyline. “That wasn’t the deal, Tim. The deal was that I came in for a day for your song and dance routine and I get a show when Harper starts school next year.” 

(Song and dance. Armie had said that too, who taught who, who knew.) 

Luckily, Timothée had a copy of Elizabeth’s contract with him and scanned a finger along the relevant clause. He had attained it from Legal, who hadn’t exactly been forthcoming in facilitating his understanding of said contract. In order to do that, and bought a lawyer that he used to know off of Grindr some lunch at a nearby deli. Six degrees of separation was king in this business. 

“No, it says, that your contract for the talk show is contingent upon your appearance on _Everlasting_ for a reasonable amount of time not exceeding 24 hours at the discretion of relevant parties.” In case she was drinking a glass of wine or something, he added, “I’m a relevant party.” 

Timothée looked out his window. The Hyundai wasn’t there. Maybe someone had stolen it. “The flight’s an hour each way and we’d want to use the day before to do some prep shots, the date will be the next day and then you’d be free and clear. C’mon Liz, it’s _Vegas_. Don’t make me the bad guy.” He waited a beat and went with it, “...I wasn’t the one that sucked your husband’s dick.” 

Dead silence. Timothée supposed he deserved that. 

“Ex-husband,” she corrected. “I can’t leave the kids with my mother overnight.” 

“So bring them, we’ll get someone to look after them.”

She laughed, “Like who? You?”

Timothée was nearing the end of his joint. He gave it one last tug for good luck before stabbing it out on the windowsill and then flicking it outside towards the sidewalk. He had to duck when it seemed to have hit a wandering bum stumbling along the sidewalk. 

“Yeah, sure. Me.” He said, “I’m the baby of the family though. I know nothing about babysitting.” 

Liz made an unamused noise that was somehow also amused at the same time, “Do you have siblings?” 

“I have a sister,” Timothée shrugged. That was something. He needed to call Pauline, but was going to put that off until after Vegas. 

Liz said, “Is this really that important to you? That I show up to Vegas with my kids.” 

Timothée swallowed the retort that they were Armie’s kids too, “...It’s a job.” He meant it, “I’m sure you did things.” What he didn’t do, was think _promise promise promise_. If anything, he shoved it from his mind. “Yes, I guess.” 

“Tim,” she said. “You’re too young for this.” 

_Your life is camera ready. Shitshow and all._

Fuck this shit. 

“Sorry,” Timothée told her. “But I have to go now. Please think about it. I can get travel to send tickets.” 

After he hung up, he balled up the contract and tossed it in the bin. After that, Timothée went to fetch a beer from the fridge.

—

Brittany’s face. Closeup. She had a wonderful sneer; it was evocative, and made you want to punch her fucking face, Timothée admired it before she turned it on to him.

“I never wanted kids,” Brittany crossed her legs. “I mean, come on, your shelf life as a dancer doesn’t last long anyway.” 

“Let’s not get off topic,” said Timothée. “The reality of it, is that Armie has kids. The reality of it, is that if you wanted to get far in this game,” he shrugged as punctuation. “He’s boned someone else and the sperm grew into whatever. And you are going to have to deal with it. End of.” 

Jacinda, sitting beside Brittany, made a face. Possibly because she was remembering the taste of sperm? As much as Timothée enjoyed cock, he’d be the first to admit he wasn’t fond of sperm. It also didn’t wash off as well as he’d liked. 

Instead, Jacinda said, “Maybe they were really in love when the kids were born.” 

What a nice, kind, non-offensive, maybe Jewish thing to say. Boring. Timothée rolled his eyes, “Sweetie, Ford is _one_. I don’t think they were that in love.” The words tasted acrid and sugary and sickly all rolled into one. 

“You don’t know anything about their marriage,” Jacinda pointed out. 

“They’re both famous,” Timothée retorted, and then added, “ish. I guess. I know enough.” 

“God, Tim. Do you always have to be an asshole?” 

“That’s me,” Timothée said. “Gaping fucking asshole. Is this what chicks feel like when they’re sexually objectified? Don’t answer that.” He preempted, because Jacinda looked like she’d actually wanted to. 

“I think I’d like to have kids,” Apple interjected in perfect English. “God knows my mother wants them.” 

“Since when do you speak English?” Timothée stared at her. 

“I’m from Santa _Monica_ ,” Apple stared back. “I was fucking born here! Rachel was the one that made me put on an accent.” 

A quick scan of his phone told Timothée that Apple Yilin Wang was indeed from Santa Monica. She worked for fucking _IBM_. The girl was probably going to get fired. 

“Actually, you know what? Talk amongst yourselves, I’ll be right back.” Timothée nodded towards the camera, “Keep rolling, yeah?”

—

Rachel’s truck was shut which was unusual for this time of day. Even if she wasn’t there the truck was always open. Timothée put his ear next to the metal and heard telltale breathing. He banged his fist against the truck, “Hey Goldilocks! Put your fucking pants on.”

The breathing stopped and a moment later Rachel emerged: tousled haired, a bit red in the face. She cleared his throat, “Jesus Christ.” 

Timothée peered around her and there didn’t seem to be anything man-shaped in her in Rachel’s truck. 

“That’s a hell of a lunch,” said Timothée. 

Rachel shrugged, “Sometimes you just feel like it. What did you think I was doing?” 

“I was thinking Armie might be making the rounds,” Timothée said. 

“Suitors do that,” Rachel widened her eyes at him. “They will continue to do that, regardless of your big gay feelings. But relax, he isn’t even my type.” 

In turn, Timothée rolled his eyes, “Will you shut up.”

“Ne-ver. Who’s going to keep you on your toes otherwise? Oh, and congratulations.”

“...About?”

“The Elizabeth thing. Travel let me know this morning,” Rachel clapped him on the shoulder and Timothée was suddenly paranoid about her hands and where they’d been. “But you know, I hope you aren’t thinking of doing something colossally dumb. Like getting Armie back with his ex-wife.” 

Timothée blinked. For the first time, he thanked his lucky stars that lying came so easily to him. Or else he might have given the game away, “...The fuck are you talking about?” 

“I’m just saying,” Rachel ran a hand through her hair, “It’s bit of been-there-done-that. And besides, it’s a tangential storyline we’re building too, yeah? That a woman can get by without a cheating lazy Mama’s boy and hashtag you go girl. If Liz takes Armie back we’re _bupkis_.” 

“And there’s Rachel Goldberg, taking one for diversity and feminists everywhere,” Timothée said. “Did you actually tell Apple to put on an accent?”

“I also told Chantal to sound more black. The shy white girl boo hoo my husband died is so not sexy.” Rachel stepped out of the truck and rolled her shoulders. “Anyway, let’s get back to work. I’ll go prep the girls for the baby toss. Can I trust you to handle Armie?” 

Immediately, Timothée traded his indignation for, “...Baby toss?”


	26. Chapter 26

It only occurred to Timothée after he left Rachel to deal with the particulars of the “baby toss” that he was so perturbed by the idea he forgot to be offended by the fact that she apparently thought he had “big gay feelings” for Armie Hammer. Well, sure, Timothée had _feelings_ for Armie, but he was pretty sure they weren’t gay feelings. They were more of the “oh my God, dude, pull your privilege out of your pants” variety. 

Definitely not gay. 

Timothée detoured to find Luca on the phone to someone important. At least, it sounded that way. He lingered as the man finished up; onscreen, Rachel was gathering the girls onto the patio and...was that a baby? Timothée moved closer and squinted. Rachel was holding it precariously by one ankle. 

“...Can I help you with something, Timmy?” 

“Yeah, I um,” Timothée ran a hand through his hair, “Sorry. If I have to go explain _baby toss_ to Armie, don’t you think I should know what it is first?”

Luca pocketed his phone again, “Do you remember Chris the farmer?” 

It sounded like a non-sequitur, but Luca didn’t seem like he was dodging the question. Timothée went with it, “Chris the farmer who is now in jail?” 

Chris somebody (the franchise was not good with last names) who was formerly a nobody from Iowa or Idaho (Timothée could never quite work out which) and had drunk the Kool-Aid that was reality television. Last Timothée had heard about Chris he had pled guilty to running someone over a la Caitlyn Jenner. 

But Chris wasn’t Caitlyn Jenner so presumably Chris was in jail.

Luca had his phone out, “I thought he only got — 500 hours of community service? Yes, I thought so.” 

“ _How_? He ran someone over,” Timothée griped. “Did you just bring him up to piss me off?” 

“No,” Luca said, and the answer was so direct and without pretense that Timothée was forced to believe him. “I know it was before your time. But there was a date that included a contest where the women did farm related activities and Chris was the judge. I agree that it’s an unfortunate name, but ‘baby toss’ is basically that. Obviously with baby related activity. We had one of the A. D.’s buy brown-colored baby food to use as poop.” 

“...What?” Timothée blinked. “That’s unbelievably stupid. And basically unwatchable. I guess you want me to prep Armie on how to change a diaper?” 

Luca looked at him evenly, “...Are you okay?” 

“Why is everyone asking me that?” 

“Because the question you just asked me was, in your own words, incredibly stupid. It’s not like you. You’ve never let a Suitor get to you before.” 

“Armie hasn’t gotten to me and I don’t have big gay feelings,” Timothée snapped and regretted it right away. “...Sorry. You know what this is? It’s fucking _Rachel’s_ fault.”

“Sure it is,” Luca was thumbing his phone again. “Don’t you have work to do?”

—

“...Yeah?”

From the other side of the door, Timothée tried to judge Armie’s voice. He had to admit that nothing about Armie’s tone suggested that he’d been masturbating. Still, “...You decent?” 

“What’s this, the 1950s?” 

“Just because I like dick doesn’t mean I want to see yours.” 

The door to the Suitor’s suite swung open revealing an unamused Armie for once wearing a shirt, “But seriously, you guys spend the past week stripping away the last shreds of my privacy and then you have the balls to ask me if I was decent. Guy can’t even get laid.” 

Timothée rolled his eyes, “You _could_ get laid. But like an adult you realize that it might not be a great idea to hump everything that moves.” He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. Warily, he cast an eye towards the camera. 

“...Can you reach it?”

“Just about,” Armie said. “Why?” 

“Just move it. I don’t know how much time we have.” 

Armie paused, as if weighing what it would cost if he said no. But then he turned away from Timothée and reached up for the camera. He pointed it away from the bird’s eye perspective it had previously enjoyed. “Like this?” 

“That’ll do.” Timothée knew that there were other cameras hidden in the room, but those were rarely activated unless someone (Rachel, maybe Luca, but most likely Rachel) was feeling vindictive. “I’m here to prep you for the baby toss date. But there’s something else, too.” 

“Back up,” Armie held up his hands in a like-minded gesture, “...The what?” 

“You probably didn’t mishear me,” Timothée said. “And that’s pretty much what I said. It’s kind of a relay race kind of thing involving things that involve babies. We’re so dedicated to this we’ve even bought fake shit.” 

“Um.”

“It’s just baby food. With some coloring. The winner will get some one on one time with you. And I.” Timothée stopped himself. 

Armie went from bored to a little alert, “...What?” 

“Rachel might be onto us. About the Elizabeth thing. I didn’t tell her, did you?” 

“Course not. I’m not stupid.” 

Timothée opened his mouth and closed it again. Mindful of the time, he was going to let that go, “Anyway. She thinks it’s regressive and disapproves. I can still help you get there. But I need something from you today. On this date.” 

“Name it.” 

“I need a kiss.” 

Armie said, “A kiss.” 

Timothée swallowed. Armie had this habit of mostly avoiding his gaze as if he was ashamed (as he should be when they spoke. Except now Armie looked at him with a glint of something in his eye and it was Timothée who had to look away, this time. “Half of the girls still think you’re gay and Rachel thinks that you have a boner for your ex-wife. It would be _nice_ if you would kiss someone on this date. Preferably in public, I mean, in front of the other girls.” 

“And you?” 

“And I what?” Timothée looked towards the camera again. 

“What do you think?” 

“I think I just want some wet panties and jealousy on this date. That’s what I want.” 

Armie was fiddling with the edge of his t-shirt. Timothée had to close his eyes. Then Armie said, “I can do wet panties.” 

“I bet you could,” Timothée muttered darkly. “Anyway, we start filming in twenty. I’ll let you get changed. Don’t forget to put the camera back, okay?” He turned to leave. 

“...Hey, Tim?” 

Timothée stared straight ahead at the door. Twenty minutes, he was thinking, was more than enough time to sneak a cigarette. “Yeah.” 

“Have you spoken to Alexi recently?” 

The odd feeling that had been pooling in Timothée’s abdomen loosened itself then and he felt a rush of relief flood through his system. He was so relieved that he laughed. “He’s touring on the East Coast. We don’t talk while he’s away. Not really.” 

“Well,” said Armie. “Maybe you should.” 

“Thanks, Dr. Phil. Send me an invoice.” 

“I get that you don’t like me,” Armie’s mouth was probably completely independent of his brain. If the two were anything close to being connected, the guy would know better and shut up. “But isn’t that all the more reason to not end up like me?” 

“Okay, dude.” Timothée whirled around. The flash of anger that replaced the relief was hot and surprising. “I have a boyfriend with a coke problem. Who okay, yes, I am mad at. I am not the person who blew up his marriage by blowing his best friend by his goddamn fucking pool. Not the same thing. Not even the same planet.” 

Armie didn’t say anything. But he did look like he was thinking about it. And he looked smug instead of offended, which was just about the worst thing in the world. 

Timothée left the room. He needed a fucking cigarette.


End file.
